


Mage of the King

by orphan_account



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Gladio/Noct for the fucked up scenes, M/M, More characters/tags as they appear, Power Imbalance, Things get messy emotionally, War Prize AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-14 22:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10545152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: War Prize AU:King Gladiolus' country has been at war with Lucis for over a generation. After a crushing loss of life by one of their own mages, Lucis folds, and Gladio is offered an appeasement prize as part of the terms of surrender.He chooses Prince Noctis, the wild mage who lost Lucis the war and killed Gladiolus' father. When Noctis arrives at the enemy camp, he goes willingly, but his motivation for doing so—And Gladio's judgment of his character—is not what it seems.Note: This is a work of fiction: It is partly inspired by my working through events where my abuser kept pressuring me to forgive them, and I obviously don't condone the shit that goes down here. The fucked up shit gets called out. So yes, again, it gets fucked up, so keep an eye on those warnings before you decide to read it. It isn't for everyone.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a few major/minor changes moving forward. Sorry to take it down. Things got wild for a bit, but it's back up now.

**Leide, Two Years Prior to the Surrender of Lucis:**

The sun had just risen over the churned earth of the northern plains of Leide, and Prince Gladiolus Amicitia turned his face to it as he stepped out of his tent amid the lines of his father’s army. A warm wind bent the dusty white fabric of the tents, whirling red sand into the wheels of transport trucks and mobile siege weapons, and the smell of oil and metal was thick enough to choke him. On the other side of the plain, nestled at the base of a ridge of low hills, the grey and black anthill that was the Lucian army was already coming to life. 

“Lost in thought?” Gladio turned to see his father, King Clarus, bending low as he emerged from the tent behind him. He was already in full armor, a bulletproof vest strapped under thick, padded cloth, and he held a glass-visored helmet under one arm. His eyes crinkled in a smile, and he placed a hand on Gladio’s cheek in greeting. 

“Missing home,” Gladio said. “I wish they’d break and have it be over with, Dad.”

Clarus’ smile thinned. “Regis isn’t one to back down,” he said. Gladio shrugged. He _would_ know. Before the border disputes, raids, and the annexation of Galahd had started the war, Lucis and Duscae were allies. Clarus had fought _alongside_ Regis, once, against the encroaching might of the Niflheim empire. Now, that empire circled Lucis and Duscae with the patience of a carrion crow, waiting for them to blunt their teeth on each other before diving in to strike.

“You’ll lead the Bravo formation today,” Clarus said, gesturing to the heavily fortified left flank of the Lucian army. “Seven mages—One of them the King. Watch your officers.”

“Of course,” Gladio said. He tried not to let his anxiety show. This was only the second time he had led the larger part of their army in Leide, and he knew how King Regis’ mages liked to pick off commanding officers with fire and ice spells, leaving the Duscaen forces directionless. “And you?”

His father turned to the right side, which bordered a canyon. “If they cede ground there,” he said, “we’ll have the only source of fresh water in the region. They’ve only placed one mage to guard it. See for yourself.”

Gladiolus squinted: A small dark figure stood at the crest of one of the hills in the north, all in black, a thin cloak whipping about his shoulders. Gladio recognized _that_ uniform well enough, and laughed. 

“The prince?” he said. “Gods, who let him out of the nursery?”

“Overconfidence comes before the fall,” Clarus warned him. “Go with the grace of the Titan, Gladiolus. I will see you on the field when we have taken the ground from under the King himself.”

“Who’s overconfident now?” Gladio asked, and his father’s laugh was warm and fond as he turned to rouse his men, striding down the lines of the tents with the bearing of a god come down to earth.

 

The first of the fire came as a flash of light out of the corner of Gladiolus’ eye, too swift and bright to bear notice as Gladio and Cor led their troops into the heart of the Lucian line. Then came an almighty _roar,_ and the wind carried a wave of heat that tightened Gladio’s skin and made the men and women around him cough and sputter. He turned to face the northern side of the plain and felt his hands go slack on the hilt of his broadsword.

Fire engulfed nearly half the battlefield, shooting up in relentless bursts of flame like geysers in the earth. It rolled across the ranks of the Lucian army where Clarus Amicitia had led his small force of soldiers. Black smoke twisted in the air, and the crack and thunder of the fire was not enough to drown out the unearthly chorus of screams as nearly one third of the Lucian foot-soldiers on the field were consumed. The soldiers that faced Gladiolus and his own troops broke at the sight of it, falling back before them as the fire raged on, catching at sagebrush and twisted brambles in an unstoppable march across the sand. 

“That wasn’t us,” Gladiolus said numbly. Only a mage could have started such a blaze, an _army_ of mages, an—

Gladiolus trained his gaze onto the lone figure on the distant hill. Standing straight against the plumes of smoke that caressed his thin frame, skin tinged with gold from the light of the fire he had summoned, Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum slowly lowered his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that I don't condone what's going on in this piece of fiction, and it gets called out as horrible. But again, as warned, it's a fucked up situation and if it's distressing to you like it is to me, you should definitely stop reading at this point.

On the day King Clarus Amicitia died, four miles of land on the border of Leide and Duscae burned to the ground.

Prince Gladiolus watched the smoldering wreckage where his father's squadron had charged not hours before, crouching in the safety of a Hunter's lookout. The fire had burned so strongly that no one could recognize the remains of those who had perished, but the truth was clear: At the time that Prince Noctis had lifted his hands and called fire down onto the battlefield, over seven hundred of his own Lucian soldiers died in the resulting blaze. It was Lucis' greatest single loss of the war, and it was all done to kill one man.

Gladiolus had known that his father could die during the war. He had been raised to battle, taught to value his subjects' lives over his own. The kings of his country were called _Shields_ for a reason, and the protection of their people should always be at the forefront of their minds.

In the dark mess of the killing ground, a young man in black walked over melting patches of ice. Prince Noctis stood in the center of the scarred earth, a small figure in the sights of Gladio's spyglass, and his face was cold and unreadable.

 _There are monsters who walk the world on two feet and call themselves men,_ Clarus had told him, long ago. Only then, staring down the man who would abandon his people for the sake of a minor victory, Gladio knew what his father had meant.

 

Gladio was crowned on the field, but the circlet of the king was gone, lost with his father, and he could feel the absence of it like a cord pulled tight about his brow. They couldn’t even find enough of the old king to send home, just bits of metal from his blade, scraps of something they thought was a skull, but turned out to be a jagged curve of blackened clay. Back in the capital, Gladio’s little sister Iris arranged the funeral, and it was said that the streets were so thick with rose petals that it looked as though the city was drowning in a wave of blood. 

He knew he was too young to be king, and Iris too young to be steward in his stead, but neither of them had a choice. Every morning, as he stepped out of his tent or walked through the halls of their main base at the border, Gladio would hesitate just for a breath, waiting to hear a familiar voice call out his name, a warmth of a hand on his shoulder, the peal of a laugh he was already starting to forget. Every morning, the absent crown weighed heavier. The war was nearly won, but not yet, and no king, no matter how young, could afford to be made weak by grief or hesitation. 

Lucis would fall, and King Gladiolus would see the monster they harbored finally brought low.

 

\---

 

When Prince Noctis arrived at the Amicitia stronghold at the border of Duscae, he came alone.

The gate sentries spotted him first: A slender, dark-haired man in a simple black tunic and leggings, dripping with gold chain and crystal. Diamonds winked on chains fine as thread in his hair, gold bracelets snaked up his wrists, and he wore a black cloth collar laced with gold wire. His feet were bare, and the guards who apprehended him flinched at the angry scrape of red at the soles.

He was brought to the tent where the king was to receive visitors, and was left under guard for two hours. King Gladiolus had informed them that he was not to be woken for trifles, and went about his daily routine with deliberate slowness, taking his time. 

When he finally entered the tent, Prince Noctis lifted his head with a clatter of precious stones. His hands were bound behind him, making him arch his back in order to put on any semblance of a decent posture, but his eyes were bright with the echo of battle-fever. They were nearly black with adrenaline, but Gladio could see a flicker of violet crackle along the irises, and could nearly taste the sting of magic in the air. The young man was more of a weapon than a prince: A force of chaos coiled tight as a wire. 

"We assumed you'd have a company with you," the king said, gratefully taking a cup of water from an attendant. The prince's gaze focused on the cup in his hand with a surprising intensity, and Gladiolus moved it to see if his eyes would track its progress.

"We don't send soldiers to accompany dead men," the prince said, in a short, cracked voice. He spoke in the dialect of the isolated city of Insomnia, which shared the same foundation as Gladiolus' tongue, but was several hundred years behind the times. Gladiolus sat on the wide chair in the center of the tent and frowned thoughtfully.

"I'm afraid my grasp of your language fails me," he said. The prince watched the cup as he took a slow draft. "Is this metaphorical, or do your people assume that I'll execute you so soon?" 

The prince seemed to take a moment to consider this. "Both," he said at last. "When someone is taken as a... spoil of war..." his lips twisted in a grimace, and Gladio smiled. "He is considered dead. Even if he is a prince. I walked out of my funeral pyre six hours ago."

"Excuse me. You walked out of a _pyre?_ " 

"They lit it after I left." Noctis shrugged, and the collars and chains at his neck and arms clinked softly. "Metaphorical. But also literal. My father will have to find a new heir, soon, and technically, I have no claim on my name."

The king whistled low. "That's cruel, even for a Lucian."

"You were the one who chose me," Noctis said, that fierce anger only now breaking the surface. "To _humiliate_ us."

Gladio's voice took on a hard tone. "Really? And who lost the war?" Noctis' reaction to that was not so much a wince as a full-body shudder. Gladio rose, and looked down on the young man on the floor beneath him. "You walked all this way alone? You _could_ have run."

"I may not be a prince any longer," the young man said, "but I won't abandon my people. If tradition calls for it..."

Gladiolus laughed bitterly. "How noble. I'd almost believe it, if I didn't see you personally set fire to _half of a battlefield_ with that gods-cursed magic of yours. Guards." The guards in attendance straightened to attention. "Get that shit off of him and take him to be outfitted properly. He looks like a noble's whore."

"And that's not what I am to you?" the former prince asked, with no small amount of surprise. The king didn't even look at him.

"The chance you had to address me directly is done," he said. "And no. To be anything to me, you'd need dignity, and a _soul._ I know you well enough to know you have neither."

"You think I'd _come_ here if I didn't—"

"Luche, if you please." A guard stepped forward: There was an almighty crack, and the dark-haired man folded in on himself, panting faintly as a red mark bloomed on his cheek. Gladiolus went to the cup of water by the chair and brought it to him, tipping his head back so he could stare up at the lip of the cup leaning over him.

"Beg for it," the king said, in a voice so low it was a purr. He could feel the man's aching thirst in the way he trembled under his touch, the way his hands strained at his bonds. 

Noctis stared up at the water as though he were dying, but said nothing.

"Alright, then." The king dropped the cup to the floor, letting the water splash over the prisoner's knees, and left him alone and gasping in the tent. "You'll learn."

 

\---

 

Gladiolus spent most of the day with his advisors, drafting up the terms of surrender for the Lucian army. It was a long, exacting process, full of needless protocol and reminders from helpful clerks that Lucis was proud, Lucis was expansive, Lucis would starve before the first winter thaw. King Gladiolus learned what years of fighting King Regis' mages should have already taught him: The sons and daughters who would have taken up the plow had instead sown the earth with blood. Crops rotted in the fields. The desert of Leide swallowed what fertile ground could be tilled, and even with the mystical crystal to guide them, the kings of Lucis could not prevent the relentless approach of famine.

Now, as the man who had finally overthrown the house of Lucis, it was Gladiolus' job to find a solution.

He returned to his rooms with a splitting headache, nursing a cup of willowbark tea as he stepped into the study that lay between his bedchamber and his private reception hall. When he heard a low, croaking voice in the bedroom, his hand nearly flew to his sword before he remembered: The prisoner. Of course.

"It's alright," he heard the former prince say, almost gently. His voice was accented when he spoke in the Duscaen tongue, thick and heavy on the vowels. "I won't hurt you. Just pretend I'm not here."

There was a shuffling sound, and a clatter. "Here," the man said. "I'll... Hm. If I turn around like _this,_ I almost blend in with the curtains."

There was a nervous, high giggle. "No you don't." That had to be Liona, the maid who cleaned Gladiolus' rooms. "Now you're just ridiculous."

"Exactly. Hardly frightening at all."

Gladio opened the door to his chambers, making Liona jump in surprise. She was folding his nightclothes over a privacy screen, and the prisoner did indeed have his back to her, twisted painfully around on his knees at the end of a heavy rope. His attempt to make the maid more comfortable had led him to pull the rope taut, causing it to tug his neck back by a new, metal collar padded with cloth. The collar glowed at the crack where it joined, and there was a chip at the base that pulsed with a faint blue light. His feet were bound with gauze, and he wore a simple tunic in the Amicitia blue and grey. When he saw Gladiolus, the humor in his eyes died immediately.

"Enjoying captivity so soon?" Gladio asked. "Thank you, Liona, that will be all." He waited for the maid to bob a curtsy and leave, then firmly latched the door shut.

"Your country is a gods-awful mess," he told the prisoner, heading behind the privacy screen to disrobe. "I've half a mind to raze it to the ground and start over. Good thing I have _you_ in that case. You're good at destruction."

The prisoner—Noctis, he supposed he should call him, now—seemed to bristle at the accusation. He struggled to turn towards the king, and when he spoke, it was in a much slower, careful tone. "I can't say that isn't true, but—"

"Don't give me that shit," Gladio said shortly. "I was there the day you showed your true colors. I did your kingdom a favor, taking you out of the equation. I can only imagine what it would be like to have a monster running the country."

"I don't understand," Noctis said, slipping into his native language. "You know I wasn't the only—" He seized and coughed, dry and painfully, and blinked in a quick, disoriented way.

"Hell's wrong with you?" Gladio started tugging on his nightclothes. Noctis grimaced.

"Your men encrypted a stasis spell on the collar," he said. "And I haven't had any... It's been a long day."

Ah, the famous Lucian pride again. Gladio glanced at a pitcher of water at his bedside, just out of reach of the prisoner's rope, and made his way to it. 

"You say that Prince Noctis is dead," Gladio said to him. He held the pitcher in both hands. "Prove it."

The man swallowed. A very long moment passed, both of them watching each other, Gladio with eternal calm, Noctis with mingled fear and disgust.

"Please," Noctis said, in a small, tight voice. His gaze was fierce enough to burn.

"Please, what?"

Noctis' lips quirked. "Your Majesty."

"No," said Gladio, walking towards him. "Master will do."

Noctis visibly recoiled, and the king's smile was all teeth. He dipped two fingers in the water and bent down, holding them to the prisoner's cracked lips. Noctis closed his eyes and let Gladio push his fingers along the younger man's tongue. It was barely enough for a few drops, but Noctis sucked reflexively, desperate.

Gladio tried it three more times. On the fourth, Noctis was trembling, on the verge of being well and truly broken by thirst and humiliation in equal measure. Affording him a mercy he didn't deserve, Gladio poured him a cup and held it to his lips.

After the second cup, Gladio put the pitcher away. He climbed into his bed, drawing the curtains on one side, and pulled out a book on astronomy. He'd barely opened it when he heard the rustle of cloth. Noctis was staring at him, looking lost and somehow young, his lips parted and cheeks flushed pink.

_"What?"_

"Where am I..." he shifted uncomfortably. "Where do I sleep?"

Gladio huffed. "Where you are," he said, and turned back to his book.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that I don't condone what's going on in this piece of fiction, and it gets called out as horrible. but again, as warned, it's a fucked up situation and if it's distressing to you like it is to me, you should definitely stop reading at this point.

Gladiolus woke in the early hours of the morning to a dull ripple of movement at the foot of the bed. Thrown into instant alertness, he pushed himself up by one hand, reaching for the blade he kept hidden behind the mattress and headboard.

At his feet, obscured partly by the ironwork of the bedpost, the former prince Noctis panted in the dark. He was drenched in sweat, his hair curling at his temples and neck, and his pupils were blown with adrenaline. Gladiolus recognized the wild-eyed, erratic gasping of night terrors from his time on the field, when companions would wake in the ditches with no notion of where they were, frozen in a too-close memory of death and fear. Gladio waited for the young man to slowly gather his bearings, to register the quiet of the fortress around them, the safety of enclosed walls. His hands were still bound, so he leaned heavily on the foot of the bed to hold himself upright.

"It smells like death in here," he whispered.

"No," said Gladio. "That's just your brain fucking with you."

"Prince Gladiolus?" the man turned unfocused eyes to him, and Gladio cursed inwardly. Noctis was well and truly gone, lost in whatever dream had overtaken him.

"King Gladiolus, now," he said. "Do you know who _you_ are?"

There was a long silence. "I don't know. Gods. I don't _know,_ I—"

"Alright. Shit. I'm coming." Though he didn't know _why._ It was almost instinct—Gladio always looked out for his soldiers, was quick to put himself first in battle and last in a retreat, just like his father, and even if this man on the floor was nothing more than a war criminal raised to command, he was... in a way, his. 

"I'm gonna untie you," he said, in a low voice. "But you need to promise not to try and strangle me."

Noctis didn't respond. He sat back on his knees as Gladio untied the rope from his neck and wrists, and let himself be lifted to the bed. Gladio sat in front of him, and waved a hand in front of his eyes, checking his response time.

"You're Noctis," he said, in the same low tone. "You lost the battle of Leide a week ago, and the Lucian army surrendered. You've been given to me as part of the terms of peace. That make sense?"

"Yes," Noctis said, slowly. "You're going to execute me."

"What? No, I—"

But the young man wasn't listening. He lifted his hands to his face, shoulders hunching as he tipped forward. His forehead touched the center of Gladio's chest, and the king carefully, _carefully_ laid a hand over his soft black hair. 

"Thank you," the former prince of Lucis whispered. "Thank the gods."

 

\---

 

When Gladio woke again, it was to the sound of a body falling out of the bed next to him.

"Oh," he said. "You're awake."

Noctis let out a string of Lucian swears that was almost inspiring, and made to climb onto the bed again. Gladio made a clicking sound against his teeth, and the man looked at him with frank confusion. 

"Once you're out, you're out," he said. "You only use the bed on my order. Last night was an exception."

"Last night?" Noctis' eyes widened, and he scrambled at the hem of his tunic. Gladio rolled his eyes.

"You just slept, princess. If I fuck you, you'll know." He groaned and got out of bed. 

"And will you?" Noctis asked. 

"That's why they sent you," Gladio said. "You know what Lucian _appeasement prizes_ are. But no. I’m not the kind of man who would bring my father’s _killer_ into my bed.”

Noct raised an eyebrow, and Gladio glanced at the unmade bed with a grimace. “In the normal way,” he added, and Noctis let out an incredulous snort. “Also, it's early, so I'm letting this slide, but from now on? You ask for permission before you speak to me."

"Do I need to ask for permission in order to ask for—" Noctis gasped as Gladio grabbed a fistful of his hair, looking down at him with an almost bored expression.

"That right there?" he said. "That's the kind of shit I don't need. You want the peace talks to fail? You want me to send you _back?_ I can. I’m about as happy to have you here as you are."

The color drained from the prisoner's face. He opened his mouth, closed it, blinked slowly.

"Permission to—"

"No," he said, and he watched a shiver run down Noctis' skin at the sound of it. "I think it's time we lay down some ground rules."

It took thirty minutes, most of Gladiolus' patience, and an ungodly _wealth_ of acerbic remarks for Noctis to be manhandled into a semblance of order. At last, he knelt on the floor in Gladiolus' receiving room, hands bound, wearing such a perfect expression of disinterest that Gladio was certain he was secretly terrified. He looked painfully out of place amid the warm, sunset tones of the king's suites, skin washed pale against the red and yellow rug at his knees. Gladio kept his rooms a chaos of color: Brightly painted bookshelves hunched along the walls, rows of hanging orchids and indoor terrariums framed the windows, and he and Noctis were surrounded by paintings of the gardens and marshes of Duscae. Noctis was a city boy, used to stone and dust and desert, and it showed. It was as though just by being there, he was draining the life from the room as surely as his collar drained the mana from his blood.

“So.” Gladio crossed his legs, and Noctis straightened a fraction. “I’ve heard about this tradition of yours. People given to the conquering nation in war are supposed to be… entertainers, right? You can speak,” he added, after a moment of silence.

Noctis shrugged with the lazy air of well-bred ignorance. “Normally, yeah. But you don’t want to hear me sing, Your Majesty, and you _definitely_ don’t want to see me dance. But I guess I can entertain people in, uh…” His gaze raked up and down Gladio’s body, and the young king gave him a warning look. “Some ways.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Gladio said, dryly. “What else can you do? Do you have any _skills_ at all?”

The smile the former prince gave Gladio was too wide, sharp as the gash of a knife. “Oh, sure. I can weave lightning. I can freeze the air in your lungs, if you want, or maybe just your eyes—I’m good at eyes. I can charge a tank with enough lightning to make the heart of every soldier inside twist in a circle. And of course, I’ve always been best at fire, but _you_ know that—“

“Are you done?” Gladio asked, trying not to stare at the stasis collar around the prisoner’s neck. The blue light shone just out of the corner of his eye, a promise that the collar was active, but the gleam of the young man’s teeth and the easy slope of his shoulders made the hair rise at the back of Gladio’s neck.

“I guess,” Noctis said, blinking up at the gilt frame of the painting over Gladio’s head. “I didn’t think you’d _need_ to hear about what skills I have. They served you pretty well already.”

“Really,” said Gladio, leaning forward. The prisoner's gaze turned to his, and his eyes were hard, cold, and strangely clear. 

“They made you king.”

A moment later, Noctis was laughing softly into the carpet, Gladio was shaking out his stinging hand, and the taste of bile crept up the king’s throat as he stood over the hobbled mage. “There’s something _wrong_ with you,” he hissed, and bright eyes met his from under a mess of untidy hair.

“Really? You _think_ so? How soon did they crown you, _King_ Gladiolus?”

Gladio took a heavy step back, and the man on the carpet didn’t bother to try and rise. He rolled onto his back, legs akimbo, and gave him such a direct, sober stare that Gladio had to force himself not to look away. 

“You _do_ have a death wish,” he said, and Noctis’ lips thinned as he was pulled up by the collar. “Well, you’re not getting off _that_ easily.”

“Apparently,” Noctis said.

“Shut up.” He dragged the man further still and jerked him forward roughly, making him stumble on his aching, barely-healed feet. “You’re here now, which means we’ll have to find _something_ to do with you. You never know,” he added, letting a hint of rage slip into his voice at last. “Maybe we’ll find a use for you that’ll actually make you _worth_ something.”

“Oh,” Noctis said, in a harsh gasp against the pull of the collar. “You can definitely try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The main edits are going to occur in the next few chapters after this one. Thank you all for bearing with!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that I don't condone what's going on in this piece of fiction, and it gets called out as horrible. but again, as warned, it's a fucked up situation and if it's distressing to you like it is to me, you should definitely stop reading at this point.

Noctis fell to his knees on the stone floor of the dining room with a gasp. 

"Might want to respond a little faster next time," Gladio said, in a dull, bored tone. The guards who had kicked the prisoner's knees out from under him moved back to their places at the wall, and Noct cast the young king a glare of pure hatred. Gladio casually reached a hand out to grip his jaw and tilt it away and down. He held him there for a moment for emphasis, and turned back to his meal. 

"Cor," he said, to the man sitting at the other end of the table. "What are you doing up so late?"

At least, to his credit, Noctis remained kneeling throughout the meal. When Gladio slipped down strips of toast and ham, he felt slender fingers gingerly take them, and knew that the man was trying not to seem overeager. After a few minutes of this, Gladio wiped his hand on his napkin and leaned in to whisper to the young man at his side.

"A little gratitude is appreciated," he said. "Not every day you're hand-fed by a king."

"Like a _dog,_ " Noct spat back. 

"Not true," said Gladio. "Dogs are bred to be loyal. No one could say that about _you._ " 

He pushed back his chair and stood, saying his goodbyes to the men and women remaining around the table. He made it five feet towards the main hall when he turned to find Noctis still kneeling, glowering at him darkly. 

He snapped his fingers. The ripple of disgust that ran through Noctis at that was almost palpable, and it was obvious that it took a great strength of will for him to rise to his feet and follow. Laughter followed him out—The men and women of Gladiolus' country had little love for the wild mage of Lucis, if the jeers that echoed through the fortress halls were any indication.

If Noctis' feet were still sore—and Gladio suspected that they were—he didn't show it as he followed Gladio through his daily routine. But when they stopped at the king's bedchambers shortly after midday to retrieve one of his reports, the prisoner's legs failed him at last. He buckled against the door-frame for all of a moment and slid to the floor.

"They grow them scrawny in Lucis," Gladio noted, and Noctis glared up at him. 

"Permission. To speak. Please." He grit it out like a challenge, and Gladio raised his brows in mock concern.

"No."

"This is pointless," the man said anyways, showing a stunning lack of regard for his own safety. "You don't even want me as a _prize,_ you just want to humiliate me."

"Yes. And?"

This silenced Noctis. He frowned up at the king, searching his face. Gladio sighed and leaned over him, hands on his hips.

"Do you know why I asked for you?" he asked. 

"I killed your father."

"No." The prisoner looked truly surprised at that, and Gladio’s smile was brittle as glass. "No, I chose you because you were willing to sacrifice your own _people._ You'd never be a king. Just a monster, a dictator. Someone to overthrow."

Noctis closed his eyes slowly, and took a long, even breath.

“Oh,” he said. “I _see._ ” His fingers curled around his cuffs, and his mouth went hard at the edges. His voice trailed off, and he spoke so softly that Gladio couldn’t quite catch it. He leaned in closer so that their foreheads were only an inch apart.

“Say that again?”

"You're holding back," Noctis said, looking up. Gladio rocked on his heels, unnerved by the glint in the man's deep blue eyes. "I’m a monster? Fine. But I'm _here._ I was given to you. I _came_ to you. Do what you want."

Gladio stepped away, turning to face the bed at the end of the room. 

“The hell are you _waiting_ for?” Noctis snapped.

Gladiolus opened his mouth to reply, closed it with an audible _click_ , and strode out the door.

Alone in the king’s bedchamber, the former prince of Lucis hooked his fingers over the top of his collar and swore.

 

\---

 

“I don’t know what to do,” Gladio said for the fifth time, lying on the well-worn couch in Cor Leonis’ rooms. He had his feet propped up on the worn groove in one of the arms, a testament to the amount of times the young king had fled to this corner of the fortress. “Lucians don’t have any kind of… weird _sex_ magic, do they?”

It was said that close friends could speak without words. The look Cor gave his young king now spoke volumes, and none of them particularly kind.

“Fine,” he said. “Pretend I didn’t suggest that.”

“I don’t think I can,” Cor said, and went back to cleaning his weapons. “Gladiolus, you know you’re practically a son to me.”

“That doesn’t sound promising.”

“But you’re becoming… obsessed. Maybe you should send him off to the quartermaster. She’ll know what to do with him, and you won’t have to hide in _my_ rooms when you should be sleeping in yours.” He sucked at his teeth in the way that meant he wanted to say more, but was holding himself back. Gladio had seen him do this with his father, when they used to disagree on policy decisions or wartime tactics.

“Astrals above, Cor, out with it,” he groaned.

Cor set down his polishing cloth. “I want to warn you, Gladio,” he said. “I’ve been there, where you are. You know that when I was young, I…”

Gladio nodded. Before Cor joined his father at the start of the war with Lucis, he had been a close advisor to King Regis. He and his father didn’t speak much of what had caused the shift, but whispers in the upper ranks said it had been a dispute over the Lucian Queen. Cor had been a quick temper, back then, though anyone who saw him now would be loath to believe it. Gladio had to admit that he _did_ want to know, but he suspected that if he learned the truth, something will have changed between him and Cor, something he wouldn’t be able to change back. He didn’t want to risk that, not yet.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. Cor’s expression didn’t waver.

“I know. But you know the old saying about keeping your enemies close? You might want to disregard that in _this_ case, Your Majesty. Just a thought.” 

 

\---

 

The next morning, after a night spent shamefacedly napping under Cor’s judgmental eye, Gladiolus left Noctis with the fort quartermaster, Juliana. Despite himself, he had hopes that she at least might find _something_ for him to do besides follow at Gladiolus' heel like a bedraggled cat all day. He should have known that this was hardly a lasting solution. She appeared at the door of the conference room two hours later, dragging a protesting Noctis by the ear. Her face was flushed deep pink against her brown cheeks, her eyes were harried and wet, and she looked about ready to spit fire.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," she said, in the tones of one already drafting a resignation letter and buying a farm in the country, "but I can _not_ have the _mage_ working with my staff."

Gladio sighed. "He doesn't have to work _with_ them, Jules."

"They're terrified of him!" she said, releasing Noctis' ear with a jerk. He glared at her and cradled it tenderly, muttering about _uptight madwomen,_ and she took two steps towards him with an upraised hand before remembering that she was in the presence of her king. She turned back to Gladiolus and pointed a shaking finger at the prisoner.

"The laundry won't have him," she said, "because they think he'll _electrocute_ them through the washing tubs. He's a _disaster_ in the kitchen--"

"I could have told you that beforehand," Noctis said, with far too much amusement than Gladio felt necessary. 

"And! _And,_ all Phadren did was _speak_ to him, and now the boy won't come out of the storage closet!" She shoved her hands in the pockets of her uniform and frowned deeply. "Unless you can cage him, muzzle him, and teach him how to scrub the floor like a, a man who's done a lick of work in his _life,_ I have nothing for him, Sire!"

Gladio looked to Noctis, who was smiling faintly at Juliana with every sign of distinct enjoyment. " _Do_ I need to muzzle you, Noctis?" he asked. 

"Not my fault the people of Duscae are so superstitious," he said. "I didn't know you thought we made human sacrifices. That's a new one."

"Sire!"

Gladio nodded to Juliana. "Yes, I understand. I appreciate the attempt, in any case." He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. "Can you have someone bring up one of the gags from the surgery? The leather ones we use on the field."

The prisoner shifted, suddenly wary. "Hold on," he said. 

"With all due speed," Gladio added, and Juliana nodded. She strode off down the hall like a daemon of vengeance, and Gladio turned his gaze to Noctis.

"You wouldn't _really_..." Noctis said. 

"I wasn't aware I gave you permission to speak," Gladio told him, brightly. Noctis cursed, flinched at Gladio's expression, and dropped to his knees at his feet. 

"A few minutes too late for that," the king said, before Noctis could open his mouth to beg.

An attendant appeared a few minutes later with one of the thick leather gags they used in on-the-field surgeries, and Gladio fitted it tightly between Noct's teeth, tying it firm enough to barely stretch the corners of the man's mouth. He cuffed his hands again for good measure. Noct rolled his eyes, but ducked away when the attendant shifted forward, and held out his hands with a sigh. Gladio struggled to hold back a sigh of his own. It looked like he was stuck with the man after all. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I edited the sex scene/what led up to it, and.... made it more fucked up, apparently. This is where it goes down, just a heads-up.
> 
> Omen!Noct allusions are strong in this one.
> 
> Keep in mind that I don't condone what's going on in this piece of fiction, and it gets called out as horrible. But again, as warned, it's a fucked up situation and if it's distressing to you like it is to me, you should definitely stop reading at this point. ESPECIALLY THIS CHAPTER AND THE NEXT ONE.

When it came time for Gladiolus' daily sparring session that afternoon, a guard came in with a thick chain and secured Noct by the collar to one of the benches overlooking the training yards. Noctis sat cross-legged on the bench, the picture of noble languor, and gently massaged the soles of his feet as Gladio began his drills.

Gladio ignored him, focusing instead on the heft of his sword, the balance of his step, the heat of the day. He was nearly back in the comfortable, quiet mindfulness that always came upon him in the midst of a fight, when he heard a booming clatter behind him and a shout of pain. He lowered his sword and turned to the commotion.

Noctis had yanked the chain so forcefully that the bench he was sitting on had overturned. The young man was lying on his back, a knee to the groin of one of the younger enlisted soldiers, cuffed hands gripping the links of his chain as it wound around the soldier's neck. The soldier scrabbled at the chain, but his mouth was parted in the desperate gasp of a man on the edge of consciousness.

Gladio reached them just as the soldier was going under, and wrenched Noctis' hands from the chain. The soldier collapsed on top of the dark-haired man, coughing and gasping, and Gladio gently pulled him to the side to get more air flowing through his lungs. Noctis stayed where he was, panting silently, limbs trembling with adrenaline.

"He's _mad,_ " the soldier said, when he could finally choke out the words. "All I did was walk past him and he..."

Gladio looked from the soldier to Noctis, and noted the red flush to the prisoner's neck, and the leggings that had been tugged down to his thighs. Leaving the soldier to catch his breath, Gladio crouched over the other man, who jerked back and raised his knees in self defense.

"Yeah, I know," he said, softly. He avoided Noctis' flailing limbs and tugged his leggings up again. Then he carefully loosened the gag and pulled it down to his chin.

"He's right," Noctis said. Gladio glanced back at the soldier, whose eyes widened in astonishment. "Took one look at him and thought, well, all this chain can't go to waste..."

"The mage is a _menace,_ Your Majesty," the soldier said. "We all know what he's capable of."

"Mm." Gladio unhooked the chain from the bench and wrapped a loop of it around his wrist. "What do you say, Noctis?"

"Smart men you have here," Noctis said. "You should listen to them."

Gladio shook his head and fit the gag back into Noctis' mouth, gaining a strangled cry of protest. Then he turned to the soldier, his eyes hard.

"You will report to Cor for punishment detail," he said, and the soldier stiffened. "If you'd take advantage of a prisoner, I cannot trust you among your fellow soldiers. There will be an investigation, I assure you." The soldier opened his mouth, and he lowered his voice. "Cor. Now."

"Yes, Your Majesty," the soldier said, and fled.

"You," Gladio said to Noctis. He pulled the man up by the collar and spoke in a low growl. "When I ask you a question, you respond honestly, not out of some weird fucking death wish. As long as you're here, Noctis, you'll have to learn to live with yourself."

Noctis stared at him, then slowly, arduously, rolled his eyes.

 

\---

 

Noctis didn’t speak for the rest of the day, even when the gag was removed and he was sent off to have his own dinner in Gladio’s rooms. When Gladio entered his rooms himself, fresh from a shower at the barracks, the air was so still that he almost forgot the prisoner was there. The only sign of Noctis was the empty tray on the coffee table, and a pair of cuffs slung into the corner of the room. There was a slight indentation on the wall above them, as though they’d been thrown there with some force.

He’d barely closed the door when he spotted movement to his left. He blocked the blow before it landed, and shifted position so that he could grab Noctis by the arm, whirl him round, and slam him to the floor. 

“Good evening to you, too,” he said, as Noctis struggled to free himself. Admittedly, he was doing a good job of it—If Gladio weren’t almost twice his size by way of muscle and holding his arm at a precarious angle, he would have been on his feet by now. 

“Never do that to me again,” Noctis said, and Gladio stared at him blankly. 

“Defend myself?”

“ _Silence_ me.” 

“Then don’t be a little shit,” he said. “Simple as that.”

“It _isn’t,_ ” Noct said. He was breathing hard, even though he hadn’t done much more than swing a few punches, and his eyes were glassy and wet. 

“Fine,” Gladio said, and Noct let out a rough sigh. “Try not to traumatize the kitchen staff, though.”

“If they didn’t flinch at their own shadows, I wouldn’t have to."

“Gods,” Gladio groaned. “It’s like negotiating with a _cat_. Lucians don’t know when to back down, do they?”

“Sure they do,” Noct said. 

Gladio raised an eyebrow. “They? What are you, then?” 

“Someone to overthrow.” Gladio recoiled at the venom in his voice. 

“I think we’ve had enough of this.” Gladio made to rise, and Noct grabbed him by the back of the head, dragging him down. Gladio huffed and pressed an arm to his neck for leverage.

“The king talked about the Amicitias,” Noct said, quick and soft. “Said they were noble. Principled. _Worthy opponents._ Not power-grabbing _hypocrites_ —“ He hissed as Gladio placed pressure on his windpipe, and he hooked a foot around the king’s leg in a useless attempt to flip him over. 

“Remember what I said about that death wish of yours,” Gladio said. He lifted his arm a fraction, and Noctis heaved for breath. 

“I _know_ you, _King_ Gladiolus.”

“Do you,” Gladio said, dubiously.

“When I killed your king,” Noctis said, in a staggered rush, “I wish… I’d been close enough to fight him properly. Face to face. But really? I wish I’d _seen_ yours.”

Gladio reared back. Noct watched him, a vague, hazy look sliding over his eyes, and rose to his elbows. There was an air to him reminiscent of the night he’d woken in a panic, something fragile and thin behind the tight line of his mouth. Then the shell broke, and he was the mage again, cold and hard and calculating.

They sat there, on the floor of Gladio’s bedchambers, for a very long while. The evening watch called for a change in shifts in the distance, and the walls of the fortress creaked as pipes began to settle for the night. Muffled laughter sounded from the courtyard. 

“Were you born evil,” Gladio said at last, “or did it come on you sudden?”

“Depends on who you ask.” The vague look was back again, and Noct eased forward on his hands and knees, closing the distance between them. “What about you? When did it happen?”

“I’m not…” Gladio forced himself not to back away from the mage’s approach. “I’m not like that.”

Noct shrugged. “If you say so.” His hand slid up the soft fabric of Gladio’s shirt, cupping his neck in a hold that was almost gentle. For a moment, the former prince looked into his eyes, brows knit in a frustrated furrow, and then his mouth was on Gladio’s, fierce and hot and searching. Gladio didn’t realize he had parted his own lips in response until he was breathless with it. He broke free, and Noctis paused, mere inches away.

“ _What?_ ” Gladio asked. Between Noct’s fingers on his neck and the adrenaline (of fear? Spite? He couldn’t tell, anymore) making his mouth go sour with the tang of metal, he was having a hard time thinking of _anything._ That was likely Noct’s goal. He closed his eyes, tried to re-establish reason. “The hell do you want with this?” 

Noctis smiled, wolfish and cruel, and leaned in, sliding a knee between Gladio’s legs. 

“Come find out,” he said.

 

\---

 

Soft, useless slippers, stained with blood at the heels, lay against the oak dresser of King Gladiolus' bedchambers. They were joined by grey leggings, and a tunic in grey and blue that fell in an unruly tangle of sleeves and wide hems. 

Gladio drew a sharp breath through his teeth.

"That beautiful, Your Majesty?" Noctis' voice had a mocking edge, and his eyes were over-bright. Gladiolus had seen that look in battle, when Noctis had been a prince and the most terrifying of his father's mages, breaking through the lines of the enemy as he froze their blood from the heart outwards. The young king found himself grateful again for the stasis spell on Noctis' collar. Even now, stripped of his power, his title, his pride, there was something dangerous twisting behind his eyes.

Gladiolus ran a hand along the other man's shoulder-blades, and felt a tremor ripple under his touch.

The young man's back was riddled with scars. Some were old and faded almost white, some raw and pink, raised in criss-crossing patterns. Hardly a palm's breadth of bare skin was left to him; the damage was so extensive that Gladio wondered how he could possibly still be alive. 

"Those are whip weals," the king said. "We're you captured...?"

"No." 

Gladio's smile was wry. "Your people love their royal family," he said. "No one would whip a prince."

"I haven't been a prince in anything more than name," Noctis said, "for two years now." 

Two years. That was the time that Gladiolus' father had been killed, along with hundreds of Lucian soldiers—at Noctis' hand. He met his eyes again, and Noctis' smile made his stomach go heavy in dread.

"King's orders, after the battle," he said. "One for every squad we lost. Well, that was the idea. It took a while, and…” He shrugged, and his scars shifted and rolled. “Not enough back."

"You're _sick,_ " Gladio whispered. Again, Noctis shrugged. 

"People believe what they have to," he said, which was an odd thing to say, but Gladio was through trying to work out his mind games. This was a terrible idea, letting a viper into his bed, but he'd gone this far already...

"This was a mistake," he said, not a few minutes later, looking down at the scarred mess of Noctis’ back. He held a hand over it, thinking of the fire that had laid waste to the Lucian army, had orphaned his sister and left him taking the crown too young. The weight of that crown hung between them, the blood hot in the raised scars that signified Noctis’ admission of his crime, if not his guilt.

Noctis rolled to face him. "Permission to—"

"You'll do it anyways."

"You’re stuck in your own head,” Noctis said. Gladio raised his eyebrows. "You aren't looking for a _lover,_ Your Majesty." He lifted a foot to Gladio's shoulder, and closed his eyes briefly when his thigh was shifted for a better grip. "Neither am I. So quit acting like I am one."

"You don't give the orders," Gladio said, in a low voice, but when he thrust into Noctis, agonizingly slow and to the hilt, the man beneath him _moaned._

The carpet, however plush, had to chafe the sensitive scar tissue of Noctis' back, but he simply writhed and panted and _whimpered_ under the swift, forceful thrusts of the larger man pinning him down. His hands clutched at Gladiolus' chest, and he rocked back onto him, urging him to push deeper, the slap of flesh drowned out in his helpless cries to _keep going, Your Majesty. Gladiolus. Please, please, gods, I want, I want you to..._

The sound of the mage calling out his name sent a thrill of disgust through Gladio’s skin, stilling him for the space of a breath. Then Noct came, tightening around him as his seed spilled onto his chest and stomach. The tension in the other man's body proved too much, and the king came on the heels of it, slamming into him once, twice, before letting pleasure take him. 

Noctis lay sprawled beneath him, gaze hazy and dark, not at all like the battle-ready gleam that had been there before. He looked oddly vulnerable, _melancholy,_ even, and when he let his head fall back, Gladio almost forgot who he was and swept aside his sweat-damp bangs.

Almost. 

He smacked the side of Noctis' thigh and pulled out. "Clean yourself up," he ordered. "The night is young.”

"Yes, Your Majesty," Noctis whispered, still lost in the fog. Gladio shuddered, and rose to retrieve his discarded clothes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another heads-up, there's some sex in this chapter, too.
> 
> Keep in mind that I don't condone what's going on in this piece of fiction, and it gets called out as horrible. But again, as warned, it's a fucked up situation and if it's distressing to you like it is to me, you should definitely stop reading at this point.

Gladiolus had long known that the Lucian army was nothing without their magecraft. Even at the end of the war, with the loss of many of their on-the-ground soldiers, their mages called up winds, threw fire, and made the earth slippery and treacherous with ice. The worst of them could summon lightning, but only the royal family could do so with any real strength.

Prince Noctis was the one mage who didn’t stay behind King Regis’ walls of protection. He seemed to take the fire of King Clarus’ death as permission to charge into the press of battle himself, wearing nothing but his mage robes and a sheen of ethereal fire that made both his own troops and enemy combatants fall before him.

At the battle of Leide, he was in top form. When the diminished troops of Lucis were given the order to retreat, he stood in their midst as a rock before the tide, drawing down webs of lightning onto the oncoming ranks of Gladiolus’ army. One of Gladiolus’ generals fell to a pillar of flame, another to a bolt of lightning out of the blue, and when Gladiolus and Cor flanked the young mage at last, the king felt a chill curl in his chest and saw the flash of violet fire flicker in the prince’s eyes.

“Your king has surrendered,” he said to the prince. “And your magic is nearly gone.” It had to be, for Gladio to still be alive, and the prince knew it. He turned part-ways to the figure of King Regis on the crest of the hill, and saw a white banner cracking in the mid-summer heat.

He looked back to Gladio, bowed deeply, and disappeared in a burst of magic. There was another burst fifty feet up—Gladio’s men leveled their weapons—and another, and another, until a bloom of blue fire coalesced into a dark figure standing at King Regis’ side, safe behind the king’s wall of protective light.

“What I’d give to get our hands on _that_ one,” Cor said, and Gladiolus laughed.

“You never know, Cor,” he said. “Before this is over, we might get the chance.”

 

Three days later, King Gladiolus and his men and women at arms met with the enemy king. King Regis stood tall and proud on the baking earth of Leide, showing no discomfort at the heat that must have been sweltering in his dark robes. At his left stood a member of his Kingsglaive, and on his right the Kingsglaive captain, Drautos. Further still stood the prince—an odd placement, Gladio thought, but then he wasn’t cognizant of every Lucian rule of order.

One, however, he did know, and it was one he’d been dreading ever since the surrender had been called.

A line of men and women in Lucian black stood just to the left, several feet behind King Regis and his retinue. Gladio kept an eye on them as the useless formalities were made, words of peace spoken through gritted teeth. At last, King Regis gestured towards them with an idle air.

“As per tradition,” he said, in his low, musical voice, “the conquering kingdom has the right to an appeasement prize. The men and women you see here are well trained in the arts, both in pleasure and in entertainment, and are all exemplary servants with the privilege of formal educations.”

“As per tradition,” Gladio said, testing the words with careful deliberation. He knew that the Lucian people would not consider the gift to be akin to slavery, but the thought of it made his stomach turn. A citizen of their country shouldn’t be considered free for another to use or discard as they will. He quested among the faces there, the young men and women behind the King who had been trained for this task, who showed no fear, no trepidation.

Then his gaze rested on the prince.

“Him,” King Gladiolus said, at last. “As per _tradition,_ we will accept Prince Noctis as the appeasement prize for your terms of surrender.”

There was a brief silence. Wind swept through the dust at their feet, and Gladio waited for the inevitable protest, the cries of dismay, the insistence that tradition meant _trained_ and _common._ That the kingdom _needed_ this monster to survive. It didn’t come.

“Very well,” said King Regis, without a flicker of emotion.

“We’ll have him to you by the end of the week,” said Captain Drautos.

And Prince Noctis, the wild mage of Lucis, the man who slaughtered troops in domes of lightning and shattered their hearts with ice, threw back his head and _laughed._

 

\---

 

“What do we say?”  
Noctis looked up at Gladiolus, a slight smirk on his shadowed face. “Please, Your Majesty,” he said. “Will you, in your eternal _grace_ and _wisdom,_ take off these fucking cuffs?”

Some ways behind them, Gladio heard a suppressed snort of laughter. He gazed down at the prisoner with a look of polite disdain.

“You know, I don’t think you’re being sincere,” he said, and rested a heavy elbow on his shoulder. Noctis scowled and leaned in to the side of the couch Gladio was reclining on, and one of the members of Gladiolus' inner council laughed.

"Never thought I'd see the mage used as furniture," said Monica. Gladio shrugged. He could almost feel the heat from Noctis' cheeks. "Anyways, back to important matters. It's been three weeks now, and King Regis keeps sending the treaty back with corrections."

"Again? He does _know_ he surrendered?" Gladio caught the closed file from Monica and unhooked the cover. "Furniture," he said, to Noctis. "Does your language have a word for Surrender?"

Noctis raised one eyebrow, and spoke the word in his native tongue.

"Well, he _would_ know," said Cor. Gladio felt the man tense beneath his arm, and shook him slightly, a warning to behave. Noctis raised his cuffed hands a fraction and gave him a deeply sarcastic look.

"It's not really the terms," Cor said. "He keeps changing his heir. It's Nyx Ulric this time. Set in stone—literally. The Crystal accepted him a few days ago."

Noctis was suddenly very still indeed.

"And Captain Drautos says he can dismantle the mages within five weeks, but they need a select number to protect their northern border. Excuse me, did I miss something?" Cor turned to Noctis, who was staring woodenly at the floor. His hands were clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white, and the edges of his mouth were hard, as though he were grinding his teeth together.

"It's nothing," he said, at last. "Nyx Ulric's a good man."

"Better than some," Monica said, pointedly. Noct shrugged the shoulder not currently occupied, and lifted his gaze.

"I wouldn't trust Drautos, though," he said. A short silence greeted this, and Cor and Gladio exchanged glances.

"You'll forgive us if we don't take your word for it," Gladio said. Again, the one-shouldered shrug. "Cor, as you were saying."

 

\---

 

"You gonna offer an explanation for that?"

The council had broken up after three hours of dithering over border disputes and grain silos, and Gladio requested a moment of privacy in the receiving room to gather his thoughts. _Gathering his thoughts,_ it turned out, meant leaning back with his hands in Noctis' hair as he thrust into his willing mouth. The man had begged earnestly for this, when there was no one but Gladio to witness it, and not for the first time, the king wondered what exactly he was getting out of this.

Noctis pulled off of Gladio's cock with a slick, wet sound, and Gladio heard the chain on his cuffs clink as he tried and failed to make one of his typical broad gestures. "Your Majesty," he said. His accent was thicker, slurring the hard consonants and dragging out the vowels. "I can suck your _cock,_ or I can talk politics."

Gladio tried to school the amusement from his face, and dragged Noctis forward again.

" _Thank_ you," Noctis murmured, and the warm heat of his mouth engulfed Gladio again, tongue working along the underside as he bore down. Gladio held back a moan.

"Where does a prince learn this kind of skill?" There was another clank of chains, and Noctis' brows furrowed. He relaxed his throat and took Gladio down to the base, his lips pressed to the soft skin there, and hollowed his cheeks as he leaned back. That was as much of an answer as he was willing to give, clearly.

When Gladio came, he bucked into him hard, an involuntary jerk that had Noctis gagging and struggling to work his throat around the warm come that coated his mouth and tongue. His fingers pressed against Gladio's inner thigh as he pulled back, and Gladio leaned down to push his thumb into Noctis' partly open mouth. Noctis let him press down along his tongue, and moaned faintly.

"Do you want to come?" Gladio asked. He pulled his thumb out and wiped it off on the other man's jaw.

"If that's what _you_ want," he said, looking up at him with that same, vague expression Gladio was starting to recognize as edging the border of desire and blissful thoughtlessness.

"Go ahead, if you can," Gladio said. He leaned down on his elbows, watching Noctis try to jerk himself off awkwardly with both hands linked together. It took him a minute or two, but he was already aching for it, and he fell forward with the strength of his release and pressed his lips to the side of Gladio's thigh.

Gladio knew that he was taking advantage of Noct's dazed state of mind, but he pressed a hand to the man's collar and forced him to look up.

"What was that about Captain Drautos?" he asked. "Nyx Ulric?"

For a minute, Noctis just breathed, slow and open-mouthed, throat rising under Gladio's fingers.

"Nyx Ulric is a good man," Noctis said, in his slurred, thick voice. His eyelids fluttered, and he closed them lazily, tilting his head to rest on Gladio's knee. "And Captain Drautos will ruin him."

 

\---

 

Three days later, Gladio sat in an office adjoining the fortress interrogation rooms, listening to the soft tones of his intelligence advisor, Dustin, through the wall behind him. Gladio had only been there for about an hour, but so far, Dustin seemed to be having a conversation with _himself._ This wasn’t much of a shock to the king: Noctis seemed to be saving all of his snide remarks for Gladio alone, mulling them over in silence as Dustin and Monica tried, by turns, to glean any information out of him at all.

"He's being unsurprisingly stubborn about this," Monica said, setting down her tablet. She'd brought a late breakfast with her, and was batting away Cor's attempts to break off a piece of her scone. "All Dustin got from him is what we know already."

Gladio flipped through the papers on the table before him. Dustin's notes were meticulous, annotated with alternate sources, and painfully dull. "It's just a bunch of shit about his military accomplishments."

"It _could_ be an attempt to throw us off," Cor said. "We know that Captain Drautos was the prince's superior officer when he trained under the Kingsglaive. He took over Noctis' training personally... Much like that Nyx Ulric he seems to like so much."

"Anyone _he_ likes is bound to be suspicious," Gladio pointed out. Monica frowned through a mouthful of scone, and chased it down with coffee. 

"Not really," she said. "The guy seems flawless. Same with the Captain. The only one with any kind of mark on his record is the prince."

Monica smacked Cor’s hand absently as the man tried again. “Astrals, Cor, get your own. Anyways, it’s odd. Noctis was supposedly the golden boy before his first time on the field. Well. Sort of. Things got a little strange before he was shipped out. Complaints about his temper, his control over his magic.”

“And they let him go to war?”

Cor gave him a pointed look. “Lucis needs their mages.” He leaned on his elbows, smiling at the way Monica jealously guarded her remaining breakfast with an arm. “I’d like to request an investigation, all the same,” he said. “The prince has been leading us on a string the past few days, but when he spoke before, the first time… It sounded _honest._ Dustin should put one of his people in the Citadel on it.”

Gladio frowned. “We only have _one_ person in the Citadel right now,” he said, “And Dustin doesn’t speak very highly of their chances.”

“They don’t have to be _good,_ ” Cor said. “They just have to watch.”

Gladio turned to Monica. “What do you think, Mon?”

“You already know what I think,” she said. “Cor has a point, but we shouldn’t be investigating Drautos. We should look into the prince. He’s what ties this whole thing together.”

“A united front as always,” Gladio muttered. He rose from his seat with a groan. “I’ll speak to Dustin, first. Maybe the former prince has finally come up with something to say.”

 

Noctis _did_ have something to say, but none of it was very useful.

“And you said _Lucis_ has trouble letting go,” he snapped, when Gladio collected him from a weary and much harassed Dustin. As Gladio was already running late for most of his appointments of the day, they had to book it to the training grounds if he was going to get any drills done in time. Of course, this meant that Noct dragged his feet half the way there, scuffing his soft shoes in the dirt of the yard outside. “I can think my commanding officer is an asshole without being _tortured_ for it.”

“Dustin doesn’t consider torture to be effective,” Gladio pointed out.

“Could’ve fooled _me._ Listening to _him_ all day is worse than thumbscrews.” He caught Gladio’s forbidding look and gave him a mocking bow. “Your Majesty.” 

Gladio resisted the urge to cover his face in despair, but only just. 

He trained indoors, now, not wanting to leave Noctis out of his sight, which meant Noctis was assigned the _thrilling_ task of maintaining the armor hung up along the walls. That day, Noct was working on boots, polishing them with a methodical pace that looked almost practiced.

“You have experience in this?” Gladio asked him, while he sorted through his weapons. Noct made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

“Everyone starts out at the bottom, in the Kingsglaive,” he said. “Even princes have to be bootboys for a while.”

“Captain Drautos teach you that?” Gladio eyed him carefully, but the former prince’s face stayed as bored and vague as ever. 

“You’ll have to tell us one day,” Gladio said. Noctis set a pair of boots aside and started working on another. Well, at least he tried. Gladio put the man out of his mind and set to practicing a set of drills his father had been teaching him before he passed. Even after all this time, Gladio still couldn’t get the twist of the wrist just right. He ran through the movements for a few minutes, settling into himself at last, blocking out everything but the sword in his hand.

“It’s your shoulders,” said a clear voice, and Gladio stepped back. Noct was staring at him, sitting with one leg raised so that he could prop the boots up easier. 

“My what?” 

“Your shoulders,” Noctis repeated. “Your arm’s wrong because you keep moving your left shoulder up too high.”

Gladio lowered his left shoulder and tried the move again. _Damn,_ he was _right._ An old injury in his back meant Gladio tended to favor his right arm, and his shoulder kept lifting away from the source of the pain. It stung him a little to think that the _mage,_ of all people, would be the one to spot it.

“Where’d you learn swordplay?” he asked. “Don’t mages just twiddle their fingers and call down fire?”

“Usually,” Noct said. “I was more hands-on.”

“Yeah, you were,” Gladio said darkly.

“Look.” Noctis kept his gaze on the boot in his hands. “The thing about… what I said. You’re naïve if you think Titus is going to give up control over his mages.” 

Gladio lowered his sword. “Titus?”

“The Captain. Whatever.” Noctis looked ready to scrub straight through the leather of the boot in his hand. “ _That’s_ what I meant about trusting him, okay? You can’t just turn off magic, once it’s been given out. Unless you want to give every mage in Lucis one of _these_ ,” he craned his neck, showing off the faintly glowing stasis collar, “That treaty is bullshit.”

“Or we could kill the king,” Gladio said. Noctis’ hands went still. “That’s where the magic comes from.”

“You wouldn’t,” Noctis said, in a dull voice.

“No,” Gladio told him. “I wouldn’t. You’re the only king-slayer in _this_ room.”

Noctis let the brush fall to the floor with a clatter. He raised a hand to his cheek, leaving a black mark behind, and dug fingers in his loose, dark hair. Gladio leaned on his sword and watched him, noting the way his expression seemed to shift without a tether, unable to settle on any one emotion.

“Why would Captain Drautos ruin Nyx?” Gladio asked. “Why _ruin?_ ”

“Training as a Glaive doesn’t prepare you to rule,” Noctis said, in that same expressionless tone. His hand dragged at the collar on his neck as though it burned him. 

“ _You_ went through the training,” Gladio pointed out. 

Noct turned to him with a smile that made Gladiolus’ skin crawl. “That’s right,” he said. “And look how _I_ turned out.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that I don't condone what's going on in this piece of fiction, and it gets called out as horrible. But again, as warned, it's a fucked up situation and if it's distressing to you like it is to me, you should definitely stop reading at this point.

A week before Gladiolus and his company were to meet with the delegation from Lucis in Lestallum, Cor entered Gladio’s office with a mug of tea and a stack of reports. He dropped the reports in the middle of Gladio’s notes—His officers were so terrified of paperwork that it was almost easier to do the job himself—and sat down on a low bench at the other end of the room, where Noctis was napping. Noct groaned and rose on his elbows when the bench moved under Cor’s weight, and took the offered mug with a muzzy, curious look.

“It’s tea,” Cor said. He tossed the younger man a handful of white packets. “Wasn’t sure what you liked in it.”

Noct set the mug between his knees and started ripping open the bags of sugar, one by one. “What’s this for?” he asked, voicing the question Gladio wanted to know himself. He tipped the contents of every bag into the mug and stirred it with a finger. Cor watched the mountain of sugar dissolve with fascination. 

“Just wanted to talk,” he said. Noct snorted. 

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“I should have you know,” Cor said, as Noct inhaled his cup of sugar with a side of tea. “I’ve put in a request to have you moved to the central prison at the capital once the surrender has been ratified. It’s where the Lucian political prisoners are. You’ll be able to—“

“No.” Gladio looked up and saw that Noctis’ shoulders were tense, fingers tight on the mug in his hands. “I’d… I’d rather not.”

“No love lost for their prince?” Cor asked. Noct looked away. “Well, I can arrange something with the warden. Solitary’s no good, but we have a few prisoners from Niflheim who won’t care _who_ you are. They’re all former MTs, pretty quiet.” 

Noctis took a long draft of the tea. “Lucis won’t be happy with it, though. Appeasement gifts aren’t prisoners,” he said. “They’re like… fancy servants, I don’t know. Companions.”

“Is that what you are?” Cor asked. He looked at Gladio, who found he couldn’t quite meet his gaze head-on. 

Noct cracked a grin. “Don’t know what I am, really,” he said. He handed the drink back to Cor, who stood with a creak of shifting joints. 

“I think I might have an idea,” Cor said, and walked past Gladiolus without so much as a nod of farewell. 

 

“You know,” Noct said one afternoon, as Gladio went through his drills and the former prince sewed patches onto worn fatigues. “You _could_ just… _not_ take me to the surrender signing.”

It was an old argument by now. Noct had been getting Gladio and his retinue up to speed with the protocols needed to ensure that he looked, at least, like a proper prize, and the tailors were having a field day with the results. Despite his cheerful little comments and suggestions during the planning process, he couldn’t help but raise the question of being left behind whenever possible.

Gladio shook sweat from his eyes. “No luck,” he said. “Your dad wants to make sure you haven’t been killed.”

Noct let out a horrendous bark of laughter, and Gladio stopped, turning to face him properly. The derision in his eyes was palpable. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” he asked. 

Gladio almost protested—Of _course_ the king wouldn’t want to see his son executed—and thought of the scars on Noctis’ back, and the way he was so readily surrendered. Sure, watching your only son turn into a killer would harden anyone, in time, but Noctis was his _son._

 _Unless he thought death would be more merciful,_ a cold voice in Gladio’s mind said. Noct had expected it, had almost _asked_ for execution more than once. Gladio’s gaze flicked to the collar at the other man’s neck, and he bit the side of his cheek. 

“I’ve approved the request,” he said. Noct watched him blankly. “The transfer. It’ll take place as soon as the signing is done.”

“Had your fun?” Noct asked, and Gladio balked. Noctis looked down, jabbing a needle through the cloth at his lap with unnecessary force. “Astrals know I’ve had mine.”

 

After weeks in each other's company, Gladiolus and Noctis had come to an understanding regarding their morning ritual: Namely, if Noctis didn't drag his scrawny little ass off of the pallet at the foot of the bed before Gladio finished dressing for the day, he'd have the singular pleasure of receiving a basin full of water to the face. So far, Noct had only shown up to breakfast looking like a drowned rat twice.

The morning they were set to travel to the neutral city of Lestallum to finalize the surrender of Lucis, Noctis clung, dripping and furious, to the foot of the bed, stared up at Gladiolus, and lay back down.

"Really?" Gladio said. Noctis turned his back to the king and dragged at his sodden blanket. Gladio sighed and pulled it out of his grip. Noct curled in on himself instead, dripping a pool onto the floor.

"I can't begin to explain how little time I have for this shit right now," Gladio said, and grabbed the young man by the back of his shirt, pulling him up. Noctis cursed and struggled to rise faster than Gladio could pull, and ended up on his knees, hanging over the edge of the bed.

"Thank the gods for that collar," Gladio said, when Noct glared daggers at him from over his shoulder. "I'd be what, ash on the floor right now?"

"Lightning, definitely," Noctis said.

"Yeah, you were good at that. Well, now that you're up, get dressed. We're going to Lestallum."

When Noctis saw the clothes waiting for him on the chair, he groaned. "Gods, what is that?"

Gladio smiled. "Lucis makes a big deal about treating their gifts properly. That means decking you out like that doll you were made up to be that first time."

Noctis shivered, lifting the fine, blue cloth tunic in both hands. "May I make a request, Your Majesty?" Gladio nodded. "Keep treating me improperly. This is a nightmare. It won't even cover my ass."

"Not supposed to. You’re the one who said this is what they wear. Throw it on, princess, daylight's precious."

Gladio had to admit, when Noctis was dressed and pulling awkwardly at the waistband of his soft pants, that it was a ridiculous outfit. It was made to show off, and Noctis' strong points weren't exactly his legs. Or his ass. Or his shoulders, even. Honestly, he was a bit of a mess all around. He was more attractive when he was moving, when his bright eyes were darkened by biting sarcasm and his smile twisted sideways just so...

Noctis seemed to be reading Gladio's expression. He placed a hand on his hip and turned round to get a look at himself. "So, Your Majesty," he said. "Want to ravish me yet?"

"No, thank you. Less talk, more action," Gladio said. "Bathroom, now. It's a long drive."

It was. Noctis slept most of the way, curled up by the footrest, which was the largest space available in the backseat. Cor shuffled his legs awkwardly the next seat over and tried not to stare. When it came to sleep, they’d learned that Noct could pass out pretty much anywhere. 

Gladio kicked him awake thirty minutes out to the city, and between the two of them, they managed to throw enough gold and silver jewelry on Noct's shoulders and arms to shame a magpie. There were even earrings, long, dangling ones dripping with crystal, and when Noctis hurriedly brushed his hair back into less of a nest than before, they reflected spots of light onto his cheeks.

"You should wear this _without_ the nightmare tunic," Gladio said. Noctis' smile was anxious and wan.

"King Regis would love that," he said, and sat back down at Gladio's feet, wrapping his arms around his knees.

Gladio considered bringing up the subject of Captain Drautos again, but decided against it. The most anyone got out of Noct after his talk with Gladio was that Drautos was "an asshole, okay?" and "not a threat to you," neither of which explained the agitated state the mere mention of his name brought on. Gladio had to chalk it up to political in-fighting, and assigned Dustin to send his spy in the Citadel to scope out Drautos' offices.

“My agent will get himself killed on his own,” Dustin warned, when Gladio gave him the order. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

When they arrived in Lestallum, Gladio hooked a chain to Noct's magical stasis collar, and gently pulled him out onto the street.

The city was awash with banners and posters advertising the "treaty," a kind name for the cruel act of surrender, and with every poster featuring King Regis' face that they passed, Noctis grew more and more withdrawn. He was entirely distracted by the time they made it to the Leville, and when they found a light luncheon tray waiting in Gladiolus' private suite, Noctis reached for a muffin reflexively.

He stopped with it halfway to his mouth, carefully set it down, and sank to his knees.

"Astrals, what is it this time?" Gladio asked. 

“Getting into practice,” Noct said ominously. He tossed his hair back with a clatter of metal. “If it bothers you, Your Majesty, you can always—“

“Not this again.” But he sat next to the table and passed the entire muffin down anyways, letting Noct's chain fall to the rug.

They had a blissful thirty minutes to stare out the window at the steaming piles of trash in the adjacent alley before Talcott, Gladiolus' page and family friend, arrived to inform the king that the envoy from Lucis had arrived and would be at the Leville's dining area for the official banquet.

"Which means dress clothes, Your Majesty," Talcott said, grinning at Gladiolus' resulting threat of exile. He tripped out the door with a whistle, and Gladiolus made to pin on his ridiculous formal cloak. He was adjusting the clasp on his shoulder when he heard a faint clinking of metal behind him, and pale fingers appeared at his shoulders from behind to hold the clasp in place while he locked it. Noctis worked on adjusting the cloak, and when it draped over the king's shoulders to his satisfaction, he drew away, leaving Gladio's back suddenly cold.

"Permission to stay behind, Your Majesty," he said. Gladiolus didn't respond. He simply picked up the lead of the chain at the prisoner's neck and walked him to the door and down the stairs. With every clank of the chain and shushing clatter of the finery at Noct's shoulders and neck, the former prince came one step closer to the room where King Regis, his retinue, and the new Prince of Lucis sat in wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Cor Greatly Disapproves_


	8. Chapter 8

Gladio nearly had to drag Noctis through the doors of the Leville’s private dining room. The chain at his collar was pulled tight enough to choke, and Gladio could hear the younger man’s breath behind him, short and harsh under the hum of electric lights and the murmur of voices. He glared in his direction and jerked his head shortly.

“Quit lagging,” he said. “It's not going to be that—“ But then Talcott was at his elbow, directing him to a line of men and women in Lucian black, and it was too late. Cor and Monica appeared at his sides, already waiting at the wings, and they approached the delegation from Lucis with fixed, false smiles on their weathered faces.

“Your Majesty, King Regis,” Gladiolus said. “How good to see you well.”

“Likewise, King Gladiolus.” They engaged in the complex dance that was royalty trying to bow without insulting the other or damaging their pride, and Gladio felt the chain at his hand go slack as Noctis finally, _finally_ caught up.

Then King Regis’ gaze turned to Noctis, and it took all of Gladio’s willpower not to step aside as the young man collapsed. His fall was coordinated: Knees, waist, arms, head, folding up on himself in a genuflection that ended with his forehead pressed to the carpet. Seeing a man—even the mage—bow like that to his own _father_ was nothing short of horrifying. King Regis’ gaze slid over him with only the faintest twinge of an emotion Gladio couldn’t place, but a man in glasses behind Regis lurched forward, mouth open. The man at Regis’ left shook his head minutely, and the other man rocked back, hands flexing as though reaching for a weapon he couldn’t summon.

Introductions were made as though there wasn’t a man currently curled on the floor. The man in the glasses was Ignis Scientia, the advisor to the prince. The _prince_ was the man on the King’s left, Nyx Ulric—someone Gladiolus recognized in reports from the war, but not a man he had the fortune of fighting against. Captain Drautos he already knew, and there was Crowe, a woman with the robes of a mage and an inability to hide her obvious discomfort at the whole affair. He felt a strange sort of sympathy with her, and took a moment to clasp her hand in greeting.

Noctis didn’t move until the Lucian delegation returned to their seats at the table.

“The hell, Noctis?” Gladio said, as the young man lifted himself to his knees.

“Don’t address me by name,” Noct said, so low that Gladio had to lean down to hear him properly. “It’ll be an offense, when my name was taken from me. And I don’t… as I am, I don’t deserve it.”

“Could’ve told me this earlier,” Gladio pointed out, holding down the revulsion that ran through him at those words. Noctis was breathing quickly, as though he were winded, and he kept his gaze fixed on the floor.

“I _asked_ to stay behind," Noctis said, in a sharp tone. One of the minor Lucian officials turned at the sound of his voice, and he shrank down an inch. "I’m sorry, Your M—“ he stopped himself, and Gladio saw his jaw working, distaste in his eyes. “Master.”

It was the word Noctis had stubbornly refused to use, and Gladio, despite taunting him with the option, had been privately thankful for it. Now, the sound of the word on Noctis' tongue was just as disturbing as his genuflection, and Gladio struggled with pity and shame.

“This only lasts until we’re out of Lestallum,” Gladio said, firmly. “Whatever this is. Don’t quote me on it, but I think I like you better as a stubborn little shit.”

Noctis looked at him then, and a hint of a smug grin smoothed the hard lines at his mouth.

“I said don’t quote me on it,” Gladio repeated, and waved his hand. “Come on. I’m not having you crawl to the table.”

There was a cushion for Noctis next to Gladio’s chair, and he was given his own glass of water by the slightly worried-looking waitstaff, who kept shooting the man sympathetic looks every time they passed by. When Gladio wordlessly offered to pass down some of the appetizers on a plate, Noctis shook his head and mouthed, _nerves._ Gladio shrugged and waited for the formal opening statements of the banquet to be over. _Gods,_ never in his life had he wanted more to be home and away from this mess.

King Regis was civil, if not pleasant—No one could feign true friendship when they were about to hand over most of their land and all of their military. Gladio spoke to Cor for the most part, and tried not to notice how the man at his feet was endeavoring to hunch his shoulders, making himself disappear from the other diners’ views.

During a lull in the banquet, Gladio was alerted to movement around the edge of the table. Ignis, the advisor, was heading towards him with a black and gold-edged card in his hands. He bowed properly to Gladio, in a funny, old-fashioned sort of way, and stepped a little too close as he held out the card. He knelt so as not to stand above the king—either Gladio or Regis, he supposed—and Gladio saw that Ignis’ shoulder was only inches from Noctis’ back.

“On behalf of the Lucian delegation,” Ignis said, in an accent that was much smoother than the former prince’s, “I present to you a gift to show our good will towards your nation, and the peace we seek to ensure here.”

“Hopefully not another human being,” Gladio said. He had to admit that it was tactless, but the man before him only looked politely blank.

Noctis leaned just a fraction so that his back was pressed to Ignis’ side. The advisor kept his green eyes on the king, but let his left hand drop to his upraised knee as the note was taken from him. Noctis slowly reached up to brush Ignis’ fingers with his own, and for a moment, the two men were a tableau of fear, rabbits frozen in the face of an encroaching predator. Gladio pretended to be engrossed in the message in his hands instead, and heard the faintest sigh escape Noctis’ lips.

“Yes, thank you,” he said to Ignis, with a polite nod. “I have not had the chance to attend a play held in Lestallum in years. I’ll take your recommendations in mind.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Ignis said. He stood and bowed deeply, but his hand still barely touched Noct’s.

Gladio lowered his voice. “I won’t bite if you want to talk to him,” he whispered. The look Ignis gave him in response was tight with pain.

“I _can’t,_ ” Ignis breathed. He straightened from his bow and made to return to his side of the table.

“ _No._ ” A silence descended over the collected officials as Noctis half rose from his knees, pulling the advisor back by the hand. “Iggy, _gods._ ”

Ignis yanked his hand free of Noct’s hold as though it burned him, and Gladio felt the weight of his dinner companions’ gazes, looking to _him_ to control his misbehaving _prize._ He grit down the taste of bile and placed a hand on Noct’s shoulder, holding him down.

He leaned close to whisper in his ear. “Don’t. Not right now. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to apologize.”

Noctis shuddered and twisted towards him, lowering his forehead to rest on his thigh. “Forgive me,” he said, in a voice clear enough to carry. “Master.”

Gladiolus felt _sick._

“I apologize for the outburst,” he said to the table at large. He placed a hand on the back of Noct’s head, trying to soothe him somehow, fingers digging into the hairs at the nape of his neck. “It won’t happen again. Your Majesty, have you tried the quail eggs?”

The conversation picked up after that, but Gladio noticed that Ignis didn’t eat much. Noctis remained silent through the rest of the dinner, mutely refusing food and water, closing his eyes to the brush of Gladio’s hand through his hair. Gladio resigned himself to it and requested an attendant to bring up a dish to his suite, just in case.

“I’m afraid I must offer an apology,” King Regis said, when the last of the main courses had been cleared and a round of palate-cleansing sorbets were delivered. “We did not have adequate time to train your gift in the behavior befitting their station.”

Gladio forced himself not to tip his wine into the other king’s lap. “I’d be hard-pressed to say if I’ve noticed anything out of the ordinary, Regis,” he said, with a brittle smile. “But then, slavery is illegal in my country, so I wouldn’t know what to look for.”

It was hypocritical as hell, he knew, but it was worth it to see King Regis’ eyes darken and his lips thin in a familiar scowl.

“Ah,” he said. “That’s the same look _he_ gives me. There’s quite a likeness.” He felt fingers clench on his thigh, and glanced down. Noctis was sitting up, the light of his earrings reflecting on his neck.

“Master,” he said. “May I speak?”

“So polite, too,” Gladio said to Regis, and leaned down to the former prince at his side. Noct’s voice, when he spoke again, was in his usual sardonic tone.

“Remember that I’m the only mage here with a _stasis collar,_ Your Majesty,” he snapped.

“There are magic jamming signals all over the city,” Gladio said. “You can’t tell?”

Noctis tapped his collar in response. “This drowns it out. But I don’t think the ring can be affected. Just a warning.” Gladio narrowed his eyes at this, and Noct shrugged. “Thank you, Master,” he said, in a louder voice, and placed his head on Gladio’s lap again. The king turned back to his companion, who was engaged in deep conversation with Captain Drautos.

Nyx Ulric—or Nyx Caelum now, Gladio couldn’t wrap his head around Lucians and their ass-backwards approach to titles—didn’t speak to him once. He looked more uncomfortable than Ignis, if that were possible, and kept glancing over at Gladio when he thought he wasn’t paying attention. His dark eyes were sharp and calculating, but they could have belonged to any of the men or women on Gladiolus’ side. Straightforward, stern, full of resolve. Nothing like the wild spark that burned in Noctis’ gaze when he was pushing back against Gladio’s orders, or those moments when Noct was undone by pleasure and made vulnerable and open, seeking comfort under the hands of a man he knew should hate him.

_Captain Drautos will ruin him,_ Noctis had said. Gladio looked to Captain Drautos, so calm and well-composed, and down at the man at his side.

Who had ruined Noctis?

What hand did _he_ have in that? Or had Noctis been too far gone by the time he arrived? Gladio thought of his words with Lorna, that first day, of the way his sarcastic drawl had almost disappeared when he spoke to Cor, and suddenly wished he hadn’t tried to be _clever_ and ask for him in the first place. The past few weeks stretched out before him, a convoluted map of ill-turnings and unexpected failures, all beginning with that moment on the field, when his gaze had turned to the prince.

Hell. He wasn’t there for mind games. He wished his sister, Iris, were there—She always knew how to read a room better than even their father—but she was back at the capital, doing the important work of running the nation while her brother tried his hand at war. He wondered what she’d think of Noctis. Probably be rightly disgusted by the whole business, if he knew her sensibilities.

As he should have been. If he had been anyone else, any soldier or mage from the enemy side, Gladio would have sent them to a nice, secure prison immediately, where they'd be treated better than revered guests, as per the Accordo treaty that had been signed before even Clarus' time. But no, Noctis came to him as a _prize,_ as something _less,_ and Gladio had wasted no time in proving that, had he? He'd been so _quick_ to punish the wild, soulless mage that he didn't even consider what it took to damage a soul beyond recovery in the first place.

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath. Could he go one second without thinking about the man? He looked down at Noctis and made a gesture with his hand, calling one of the attendants over from their place at the door.

“Escort him to my suite, please,” he said, and the look Noctis gave him was so sickeningly grateful that he felt like hitting something. “I’ll be up shortly—it looks like it’s winding down.” It wasn’t, but he could tell that King Regis was starting to tire, and it would be poor manners to let a king collapse in the middle of dessert. Gladio felt a weight lift from his shoulders as Noctis was towed away, and was so caught up in the freedom of it that he didn’t even notice when Captain Drautos begged his king’s leave to retire for the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we'll need some help carrying the enormous humble pie that's on the way...


	9. Chapter 9

Gladio had been trained to walk quietly. It was a skill his father taught him early, and had proven itself useful in a world where the threat of assassination was more than just a passing notion. It became a habit, one that most did not expect of the larger man, and it was the only thing that prevented Gladio from being detected now, as he turned up the stairs towards his private suites and saw a figure standing in the hall.

He fell back behind the partition just at the end of the stairwell. Captain Drautos had been leaning into the darkness of an alcove, his low voice reverberating in the empty hall. Gods, Gladio hoped he didn’t have a lover with him. The way the man had pressed both hands against the wall on either side of the alcove, and by the cold smile on his lips, it seemed obvious that _someone_ was there.

“You don’t have a claim on me.”

That was Noctis’ voice, as haughty and cold as it had been those first few days at Gladiolus’ fortress, dripping with noble disdain. What was he doing out of the suite? Had the attendant not even bothered to lock him in? Had he just sent him up and walked off, certain that Noct’s recently compliant behavior would be enough? Gladio adjusted his position on the stair to mask his shadow, and shook his head at the way anger made fools out of the best men. Anyone could have been listening, and the two of them were barely bothering to whisper.

“That’s right,” said the captain. “You’re in the hands of King _Gladiolus_ now. How hard did you have to beg for him not to strike you down? Or is he waiting until after the surrender?”

“I didn’t beg for my life.”

“No.” Drautos’ voice lowered. “No, I’d bet you begged him to _take_ it.” There was a silence. “You _did. _You did, didn’t you, and he didn’t even find your life worth enough to take—”__

__“Don’t.” Noctis sounded almost raw. “You don’t mean that. You used to say, you said I—“_ _

__Noctis made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a whine, and there was a sound of jingling metal._ _

__“Who set the fire?” Captain Drautos asked._ _

__“I did,” came the whispered response. It sounded rote, a script Noctis had heard before._ _

__“Who cost us the war?”_ _

__“You. _Fuck._ ” There was a rough scrape of cloth, and the thump of a fist against the wall._ _

__“ _Who cost us the—_ “_ _

__“I did! _I_ did.” Noctis’ voice was breathy and high. “I was too reckless, I should have seen it, should have _known._ You know I know this, Titus. You of all people.”_ _

__There was another thud, a vibration in the wall, and a low, unfamiliar laugh._ _

__“You don’t have the _right_ to call me by my name.”_ _

__For a moment, all that could be heard was their breathing, and the slow slide of a boot against the carpet._ _

__“Who does? Who has _you by_ the balls, _Titus?_ ” Noct spoke with care, drawing out every word. “Not King Gladiolus. I’ve seen enough to know that. Tenebrae? Niflheim? Accor—“_ _

__A hitch of breath. “You planning to whore yourself out to them, too? Get the boy king to pass you around? He looked almost used to you. Does he curse you, when he spreads you _open—_ ”_ _

__Gladiolus had heard more than enough. He quietly backed down a few steps and laid a foot heavily on the stair. “Don’t mind me, Cor!” he called, over his shoulder. “Just a few glasses of champagne.”_ _

__He climbed the steps slowly, taking care to make as much noise as an inebriated _boy king_ could conceivably manage. By the time he made it to the hall, it was empty, but the shadow in the alcove was a shade darker than it ought to be. He padded silently towards it, and looked down at the wretched form of Noctis, digging his hands in his dark hair as though he wanted to rip it out by the roots._ _

__Cold blue eyes met amber, and didn’t look away._ _

__

__Noctis sank to the floor as soon as Gladiolus locked the door to his suites. Gladio ignored him and walked on into the bedroom, where he pulled his phone from the top drawer next to the bed, flipped through it, and pressed a button. A static white noise filled the room, like a broken-down air conditioning unit._ _

__“Come here,” he said, pitching his voice over the dull roar. Noctis hesitated. “No. Walk to me, like a man.”_ _

__Slowly, eyes almost closed in the dark of Gladiolus’ rooms, Noctis went to him._ _

__“Keep your voice low, and no one will hear us,” Gladio said, when Noctis was standing just a few feet away. “Did he hurt you?” He lifted Noct’s chin, pulled back his hair, and checked his neck for bruises. Noctis stood utterly still and quiet, shifting when needed and fixing his gaze to a spot just to the right of Gladio’s ear._ _

__“He didn’t hurt me,” he said, after a minute of this. “Took the wind out of me, held me down, but didn’t hurt me.”_ _

__“I’m gonna say that counts as hurting,” Gladio said, gruffly. “Noctis. A while back, you said you _came_ to me. You walked from your camp to mine, on your own. But it wasn’t to honor the treaty.”_ _

__“No,” Noctis said, dully. “It wasn’t.”_ _

__“It was Drautos. You suspect him of being a double agent? A traitor?” The other man nodded. “Why would you think Captain Drautos is in _my_ pocket?”_ _

__Noct’s voice was very soft indeed. “You had the most to gain.”_ _

__“Explain.”_ _

__Noctis took a shaky breath. “May I—may I sit? Please?” Gladio waved an arm in approval, and Noct fell back against the bed. He toyed with the crystals under his right ear, making them wink in the light through the window._ _

__“I started training under the Kingsglaive when I was fourteen,” he said. He continued to run his thumb and forefinger over his earring, letting it trail over his skin like a wave. “I was a prodigy. We usually are, in the line of Lucis. Dad taught me the basics, how to throw lightning, how to pull up a wall… but he turned me over to Drautos. It made sense. And he was… he was _nice._ Complimented me. Told me I was going to be the king of kings, the one who brought glory back to Lucis. It was good to be useful, have a purpose. Dad—The king sacrificed so much, bearing the ring that protects the crystal, I had to do _something._ ”_ _

__“The day your dad died…” His gaze flicked to Gladio for a hairs breadth of a second. “That was supposed to be the start of it. End the feud with the Amicitias, cement my place as a hero. So Drautos and I, we made a plan. We knew where King Clarus Amicitia was going to charge that morning. We purposely made a weakness in the ranks, one we knew he’d try to exploit.”_ _

__Gladio felt his blood run cold. Noctis drew his knees to his chest with a clatter of necklaces and bangles._ _

__“I didn’t say it was honorable,” he said. “But I was to strike just him. _Just him._ When I say I’m a prodigy, I mean it. I can hit one bullet out of a sky full of them, if I have to. When I cast my spell, it hit King Clarus. _Only_ King Clarus.” Gladio made to interrupt, and Noctis rushed to fill in the empty space. “When he struck the ground, he was still burning. That’s how the magic works, it’s—powerful. And then… Turns out the lines in the ground that Drautos had ordered to be filled with oil were lit. Someone had buried pots of it under the sand. When I came back to check, I saw pottery, bits of it, in rows.”_ _

__“That’s insane,” Gladio said, slowly. He remembered watching Noctis walk through the scorched earth of the battleground, after, head down. Remembered how small he’d seemed, how impassive his expression. “I saw—“_ _

__“Did you?” Normally, there was just a hint of a wild spark in Noctis’ eyes. Now, they blazed with it. “ _Did_ you see it? How did the fire burn, Your Majesty?”  
Gladio forced himself to think back to that terrible day. He hadn’t seen his father die, but he _had_ seen the first bout of flame. And then the second, and the third, jetting forth across the battlefield like a wave._ _

__“It was made to look like a spell,” Noctis said. “A great spell. Da—the King, he said it was the only explanation. For all he knew, I’d drawn from the power of the crystal to kill my own people. I was dead to him then, and Drautos took my place at his right side.”_ _

__Gladiolus fumbled for his chair and sat heavily. He carded his fingers through his hair. “Do you have proof of this?”_ _

__Noctis’ laugh was cold. “Would I be here if I did? I didn't... At first I thought it must've been a mistake. Drautos would never—He was a _war hero,_ Your Majesty. He was my—" His face darkened, and he looked away. "When I confronted him, he was so _furious,_ I thought, maybe everyone was right. Maybe the _crystal_ was right. Did you know," he said, scrubbing a hand over the side of his face so that his smile twisted into something of a grotesque snarl, "that the crystal _warned_ my father that I might go downhill? I mean, when even a magical rock says you're out of control, what else are you supposed to think? So maybe I _was_ losing it. There was even an investigation. People saw me doing things I couldn't _remember,_ but there were so many of them, it didn't add up... I thought maybe I got it wrong. I started testing my magic, my control in battle. But in every fight, my control on my magic only got _tighter._ It made no _sense._ "_ _

__Gladio thought of the brutal, _personal_ efficiency in which Noctis had fought, after the fire. The way he would burn or freeze the blood in individual soldiers, sometimes just in their arms or legs, sometimes directly to the heart. The complex, woven spell nets of electricity that landed with such precision over Gladio's troops. He swallowed around a throat gone hard and bone-dry._ _

__"So I almost gave up," Noctis said. "But before I walked into the pyre the day I came here, he told me. He knew it was too late, I’d already owned up to my reputation. He figured you’d execute me. So did I.” His voice trailed off at that, and Gladio forced himself to look at him again._ _

__“And you came here because you thought he worked for _me?_ ”_ _

__“You won the war.” Noctis shrugged._ _

__“My father _died_ on that battlefield,” Gladiolus said. “Do you think I’m the kind of person who would orchestrate my own father’s—“_ _

__“You aren’t!” Noctis’ voice rose dangerously, over the hum of the white noise. His fists were clenched in the sheets of the bed, and he slowly released them, shaking out his hands. “I know that. I’ve _seen_ it. I was _wrong._ ”_ _

__“But then… What’s Drautos planning?” Gladio asked. “Why go through all this? Why hand me Lucis?”_ _

__“I don’t know,” Noct admitted. “He wanted us weak. If he isn’t working for you… Maybe it’s someone else. Maybe it’s just him, wanting me out of the way. Nyx isn’t of the Lucian line. There are too many things that can go wrong.”_ _

__Gladio breathed in deep, turning his gaze to the ceiling. “Astrals,” he said. “What have I inherited?” When he looked back to Noctis, the young man was shaking slightly, as he had when he’d bowed before his father, and he refused to meet Gladio’s eyes. “Hey. Noctis. Look at me.”_ _

__“You shouldn’t’ve been dragged into this,” he said. He turned his back to the king. “I don’t blame you for hating me. For _choosing_ me. If I hadn’t killed your father, none of this—“_ _

__Gladio climbed onto the bed next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Noct flinched away, and he retreated.”_ _

__“Prince Noctis.”_ _

__“Don’t call me that.”_ _

__“What happened on that battlefield, it wasn’t you.”_ _

__Noct's laugh was little more than a rasp of breath. “Do you blame the man who pours the oil, or the man who lights the fire?”_ _

__“You were tricked into it,” he insisted. He thought of the scars on Noctis’ back, the vindictive way he seemed to _own_ them, the terrors that woke him in the night. “Drautos didn’t take any of the blame. Was _he_ whipped for his pains, Noctis?”_ _

__Noct closed his eyes._ _

__Gladio didn’t trust himself to speak after that. Noctis’ back was ramrod straight, and his hands fisted on the sheets. When he finally started to relax, Gladio sighed._ _

__“Let’s turn in for the night,” he said. “You won’t—“ When Noctis slipped out of his hold and started lowering himself to the floor, Gladio felt monstrous. All this time, he’d been punishing Noctis as well, and he’d—_ _

__“Not like that. Astrals, _stop._ ” He pulled the other man back up, and turned him around. Noct refused to look at him even as the king carefully lifted off every necklace, every bracelet, the stones in his hair and at his ears. For a moment, Gladio’s hand lingered on the stasis collar at his neck, and felt warm fingers close over his._ _

__“Leave it,” the young man whispered._ _

__When he looked more of a man and less of what the war had made of him, Noctis silently climbed into the covers. He rolled himself towards Gladio when the king settled down next to him._ _

__“You deserved better than this,” Gladio said. "I'm sorry." He couldn’t be sure if Noctis was even listening, but it had to be said. He repeated the words in Noctis’ own tongue, and the man who had once been a prince shook his head, buried his face in the crook of Gladio’s arm, and breathed tight and ragged against his skin._ _


	10. Chapter 10

Noctis—Formerly the wild mage of Lucis, formerly Noctis Lucis Caelum—had never drowned before, but he was fairly sure he knew what it felt like. Sometimes, when he woke in the night to the stench of burning flesh and the tight heat of fire, he would wake fully, panting and desperate, to drag himself back to the world. But other nights, he only half woke, and lay trapped in a thick fog, throat constricting, chest struggling to rise against a heavy pressure in his lungs. Lately, his questing fingers would find the cool metal of the stasis collar, and he would cling to it like a lifeline. It was a reminder of who he was, now. Who he no longer had to be.

That morning, as Noctis gasped himself awake on the heels of a familiar vision, his hands pressed against soft skin at the hollow of his throat.

Panic seized him. He rolled to his side, taking deep gulps of air, pushing his fingers along the line of his jaw in search of the now-familiar collar. It wasn't there. He stared unseeing into wallpaper he didn't recognize, and forced himself to focus. Citrus. The scent of flowers—Gladiolus. For a man who cut his eyeteeth on a broadsword, he had a fondness for faint, floral scents. _Fussy,_ Ignis would have called it, but it was almost pleasant, really. Organic, but without the reminder of decay.

Above that scent was the ground-in dust of the Leville. He turned his gaze to the window and groaned. How late was it? _Hell,_ he was due a bucket of water to the face any minute now.

Except it didn't come. He waited a moment, arms wrapped tight in the covers of Gladio's bed, but all he saw was the steady crawl of light from the window, following the sun. Finally, he rolled onto the floor and stripped off the nightmare tunic. The signing wasn't until the afternoon—maybe he was being left alone until then.

Then why was the collar gone?

Low voices sounded in the other room. Gladiolus, and... Someone he knew. Noct dragged a hand through his hair and stepped into the suite reception room, his free hand pressed tight to his bare neck.

Ignis Scientia rose from his seat at King Gladiolus' side.

_They aren't your equals any longer,_ the man who had trained him in the proper protocols had said, before he was to be sent to the enemy as a prize. _Don't insult them by refusing to acknowledge your new place in the world._ After a night of debasing himself before the entire Lucian delegation, he obeyed that voice involuntarily, knees buckling. Ignis lunged forward.

"Noct, please." Firm hands gripped his shoulders, dragging him up, and Ignis drew him to his feet in an unsteady stumble. "Not to me. Not here."

"Not again." Gladiolus looked up at Noct with something that seemed worryingly like regret, but he barely had time to register it. Ignis pulled him into his arms, digging at his hair and lightly brushing the scars of his naked back. A shudder ran through his former advisor and friend, and Noct returned his embrace, gentling him with a hand at the nape of his neck.

"Gods, Noctis," Ignis said. His voice was muffled against his shoulder. "Forgive me. I couldn't stop them from sending you away, I couldn't stop _any_ of it..."

"Ignis, it's fine." It wasn't, it never would be, but he hated the quaver in his friend's voice. "But why are you here? The stasis collar, where did it—"

"I removed it." Gladio's voice was strangely short. "Take it as a sign of trust. Don't make me regret it, Prince Noctis."

Noct flinched. "I'm not a prince."

"You are." Gladio's eyes had the same cast they had when he'd removed Noct's jewelry the night before. Not pity—Noct didn't think he could handle that—more like remorse. 

Noct drew back from Ignis' hold. "Yesterday, I was calling you _Master,_ " he said, and Gladio winced. "Why would you—"

"I called your former advisor in for a second perspective," said the young king. "He says your story warrants investigation. I've passed requests down the line to my Intel department: There's no way an operation the size you described could go off without leaving a trail. Oil needs a supplier. Suppliers need trade routes and contacts. And agents never work alone." He placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward. "No one is untouchable, Noctis. If Drautos is the one behind all this, we'll find enough evidence to bury him."

Noct tried to make sense of this. When he'd broken at last, the night before, he'd expected Gladiolus to spit the words back in his face. To laugh. Not to _believe_ him. Noct hadn't even told the entire truth to Ignis, but an enemy king... He felt a laugh welling up in his throat, and cool hands touched his chest.

"It's too much at once, I know." Ignis' voice was kind, achingly so. "Let me help you dress. His Majesty sent for coffee; You'll feel more of the thing, then."

"Still looking after me, huh?" Noct said.

"Always." Ignis scooped up a bundle of black cloth. "Steady, Your Highness."

Noct knew he didn't really need the help. Ignis just stayed there, cool and composed as ever, waiting for him to finish. He'd been the only true grounding presence in Noct's life for the past two years. The only one who said "highness" in a tone that didn't ring hollow, who met his gaze and didn't look away. Noctis slipped on the provided clothes in such a daze that he didn't realize they were in Lucian black until he was fastening the buttons of his jacket.

"I know it's a little tall for you," Ignis said, from his seat at the window. "But it's the best I could find on short notice."

Noct stared down at the soft black cloth under his fingers, and felt the hot sting of tears in his eyes.

"Don't worry about it, Specs," he said. "It looks fine."

 

The changes in Noct's status with Gladiolus took some getting used to. He perched on the edge of the couch with the nervous air of an imposter, ready to drop to the floor at the twitch of an eyebrow, and he kept reaching up to touch his neck, shivering at the tenderness of the bruises the collar left behind. Gladio watched him warily, as one would a wild animal, and Noct slowly and methodically ripped apart the breakfast roll on his plate.

"Noctis, have a care," Ignis admonished. Noct grinned at him briefly and lurched for his coffee.

"Technically," Gladiolus said, as Noct poured what had to be half a cup of cream and sugar into his drink, "You're still a prisoner of war. We'll have to put a magic-jamming signal on a tracker at your ankle when we leave the city, but it won't drain your mana like the stasis collar does. And you'll be held at the capital under house arrest, not in the central prison, and not... Not as you were."

"King Regis will see that as an insult," Noct pointed out.

"Yeah, well, he's lucky I'm letting him keep the throne." Ignis straightened a little, and the king gave him a dry look. "It's the truth," he said. "Of course, I _could_ order them to reinstate you as prince. You could go home tomorrow, if you want. It's really... it's up to you. It should have been from the beginning." 

"Unfortunately, that would be inadvisable," Ignis said, before Noct could work up the courage to object. Noct cast him a grateful look, and he leaned over to touch his knee, a familiar gesture of comfort that had Noct's throat tightening dangerously. "It would be better if he were to return _after_ the conspiracy against him is revealed. As it is... I don't believe Insomnia is safe for you, Noctis."

"It isn't safe for you, either," Noct said. _Come with me,_ he thought, desperately, unable to bring the desire into words.

"I believe I can manage," Ignis said. His fingers squeezed Noct's knee, and something in the way his eyes crinkled at the edges told him that he understood his unspoken plea. Noct swallowed thickly and turned away. 

Gladio shifted in his seat. "It may be for the best," he agreed. "But still... The way you were—the way I treated you—It was unacceptable. My own father would have been ashamed. I'm sorry, Noctis."

When Gladio bowed in his seat, Noctis nearly dropped his coffee. He watched him for a long moment, trying to sort out his own feelings amid the wreckage of the past few weeks. Part of him still felt like Gladio hadn't been hard _enough..._ But it was the part of Noct's mind that spoke in Drautos' voice, soft and insidious, whispering to him at every flicker of pain and flush of humiliation: _Who set the fire? Who cost us the war?_

Then there was the part of Noct that he couldn't push down, the part of him that fought against the isolation of the past two years, who spat defiance in the enemy king's face and tried to freeze his heart to cracking pieces at the battle of Leide. That part still raged, still _hurt,_ and no amount of bowing and scraping could be enough.

Noctis sipped at his coffee and settled for silence. The king didn't look surprised by this, and simply moved on, flipping open a file on the table between them.

"Now," he said, in the brusque, formal voice he used with his soldiers, "As I can count on your discretion, there's one wrinkle in the terms of surrender that we need to discuss..."

 

\---

 

When Gladiolus approached the table where King Regis waited to formally sign the terms of surrender, he saw that a cushion had been placed next to his chair. He kicked it aside, letting it skitter underneath the table, and bowed lightly to the Lucian king before taking his seat. Talcott rushed forward with another chair, which remained empty at Gladio's right as the others waited for his approval to sit. He nodded, and both delegations moved to occupy the benches along the wall.

"A matter was brought to my attention," Gladiolus said, when the formal announcements were done, "that required a change in section 4a of the terms of surrender. If you will, Your Majesty." He gestured to King Regis, who flipped through the folder before him and narrowed his eyes at the addendum pushed towards the end of the terms.

"We cannot afford to be lenient in this matter," Gladiolus said, trying to call to mind the way his father used to speak, as though there were no doubt that his command would be followed implicitly. "There will be full disclosure of Lucis' intel, dating back to ten years before the start of the war. The Intelligence operations you have in place will fall directly under our control. Failure to comply will be considered a breach of the terms, and will result in the dissolution of the Lucian monarchy."

King Regis raised his eyebrows, but did not respond. He had no choice but to comply—It was not the place of the surrendering country to argue their terms, and this addition was only an extension of a condition that already existed.

Gladiolus let his gaze drift down the line of officials on Regis' side of the room. Captain Drautos seemed to have turned to stone, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall. Gladio held back a smile.

"I see," Regis said. "It is not unreasonable." He returned to the terms, and both he and Gladiolus were the first to sign their names. Then came the fuss and pomp of the top brass listing their own signatures beneath theirs, and the governor of Lestallum signed as one of the two required witnesses.

"Forgive me, King Regis," Gladio said, looking down at the last line on the terms of surrender. "The second witness is on the way."

He pitched his voice to carry over the wide room. "Prince Noctis. If you would be so kind?"

King Regis clenched his hands on the table as a slender, dark haired man in black rose from the crowd of attendants in the back of the room. His footfalls were soft as he passed the long line of Lucian officials, and if he noticed the way Captain Drautos jerkily turned to watch his progress, he gave no indication. He stopped before King Regis and King Gladiolus, and bowed properly, just at the slight angle a prince would afford to a foreign ruler. Gladio inclined his head, but Regis remained rigid and silent. 

When Noctis leaned over the table between them to examine the terms, his hand only trembled slightly. For a moment, King Regis' hand rose, hovering mere inches behind his back, and his lips tightened. Then his hand lowered, and Gladio saw the expressionless mask slip over Regis' face again, cold and hard. He wondered if that's where Noct had learned it. 

"Right here, Your Highness," Gladio said. Noctis' lips twitched in the faintest sideways smirk, and he slashed his signature across the page. Then he rose, bowed again, and sat in the chair directly to Gladiolus' right.

A ripple of sound rushed through the room.

"Very well," Gladio said, as the whispers rose to a roar. "It is done."


	11. Chapter 11

After the conference broke up, Gladio and his entourage took Ignis' invitation from the previous night and went to a play at Lestallum's oldest theater. They crowded in to a roped-off upper balcony that smelled faintly of cleaning solution, and had the pleasure of viewing the mold-encrusted gilding of the theater ceiling from a head-on perspective. Noctis sat in the corner of the balcony, a deeper shadow against the black curtains, but not before discreetly stealing a stuffed date from the tray of appetizers the theater staff had delivered at Gladio's side. He applauded as the curtain rose, and propped his feet up on the balcony railing.

"I don't know what I'm watching," Cor hissed after about half an hour, leaning in to shoot Gladio a desperate look. "So is she… is that actress supposed to be _marrying_ him, or is she secretly a duchess? Why did she step on the stuffed ferret? Is that... symbolic... of something?"

Gladio shrugged helplessly. On the stage, the woman in question threw a hat in the air, and all the onlookers gasped, scandalized. Noctis' eyes widened.

"It's a metaphor," Noct whispered, and the others turned to stare. "Something about... Look, she stabbed the cheese wheel earlier, so that means this is supposed to represent the fall of the Galahd monarchy two hundred years back. Except the ferret means Lucis is repeating the cycle, which, I mean, I'm gonna have to object on patriotic reasons..."

The others on the balcony were deathly quiet.

"You're shitting us," Gladio said. On the stage, a man kicked a wall and challenged it to a duel.

"No, this is pretty basic stuff. You don't have plays where you're from?" He looked so bewildered, so earnestly curious, that Gladio realized with dawning horror that he was telling the truth.

"Not... like this," Gladio admitted. Noctis shrugged and turned back to the stage. His hands hadn't stopped shaking since the signing that afternoon, and his face was unnaturally pale in the darkness of the theater, but the show seemed to be helping somewhat. He followed along with true interest, and Cor and Gladio found themselves watching his expressions more than the plot of the actual play.

When the curtain closed on the first act, Gladiolus turned to find Talcott at his shoulder.

"Prince Nyx here to speak to, um." Talcott glanced at Noct, who sighed and dropped his feet to the floor. He rose from his seat and leaned down as he passed Gladio.

"Tell me if they actually follow through with the Astral allegory. I'm amazed this hasn't been shut down yet."

"So am I," Gladio muttered, for an entirely different reason. Noct bowed politely to Nyx, who stood to the side in a perfectly tailored suit.

"The royal colors look good on you, Ulric," Noct said. Nyx scowled. Their voices were low, and they stepped to the side, but they both knew it would be considered a breach of trust to speak privately. Gladio leaned back a little to get a better look at them.

"I had my doubts," Nyx was saying. "Really, Noctis. I did. The way Ignis talked about you... But after the fire, when you started—"

"This again?" Noct sighed. "Yes, I know. I'll add you to the list of deeply disappointed Lucians—"

"But it's true, isn't it?" Nyx's voice was fierce with anger. "You might as well have shouted it, back there. You were in King Gladiolus' pocket the whole time."

"If that's what you want to believe," Noctis said, in a bored, vague tone.

"No wonder he asked for you. What are you getting out of this?" Noctis sighed and made to walk past him, and Nyx grabbed him by the collar. "What do you have _planned_ for us, Noctis?"

Noct grabbed the other man's hands and slowly pried them off of the front of his jacket. "I want what you want, Nyx."

"If you knew what this has done to the _King—_ "

"Enjoy the play, Your Highness." Noctis bowed mockingly and stepped around the other man. He resumed his seat in the corner, seemingly engrossed in the drama unfolding on the stage, and Nyx watched him with barely withheld rage before turning on his heel and striding off without a word.

"Oh," said Noct, in a quiet voice. "They made the allegory after all."

 

\---

 

" _Gods,_ what a night."

Noct staggered into the royal suites after Gladio, running a still unsteady hand through his hair. They'd all stopped for a refreshment at one of the outdoor restaurants, and were summarily mobbed by photographers, making the trip back to Leville a long, weary trek through side streets and back alleys. Even Gladio was exhausted, and when he stumbled into the bathroom, he didn't so much shower as he stood under the stream of water and tried not to fall asleep on his feet.

He came back to find Noctis sprawled out on the bed, lazily unbuttoning his jacket with fumbling fingers. Gladio leaned against the wall and watched him as he slithered out of his jacket, shoved off his pants, and climbed into the covers without bothering to remove his socks or shirt. He looked up at Gladio through half-lidded eyes and rolled his shoulders slowly.

"What?"

"I'll sleep on the couch," Gladio said, and turned to go.

"No, wait." Noctis scrambled to a sitting position and drew up his knees. "The hell brought this on? You never had a problem before."

Gladio's face darkened. "I should have. Seemed like you wanted it before."

"I did."

"Right. And how much of that was you trying to punish yourself?" Noctis just gaped at him, and Gladio let out a derisive snort. "Yeah. Thought so. I'll just—"

"It's easier," Noct said, and the bed creaked as he moved towards him. He had the same open, slightly lost look he'd worn that first night, on the heels of the nightmare that had drawn him gasping into a terrified half-awareness. "At night, when there's someone there. We don't have to... I mean, it's nice when there's something to lead up to it, but even just knowing someone's nearby, it helps."

Gladio gave him a long, slow look. He knew that it killed the prince to have to admit to this kind of weakness, to needing someone. Astrals, even when he was made a pariah in his own kingdom, he responded by becoming the wild mage they thought him to be, rather than admit that he had been manipulated. He'd even done it again that night, at the theater with Nyx.

A terrible thought crossed Gladio's mind. How did Noctis come to be so used to taking a lover to ease the night terrors that came with sleeping alone? Who in the Lucian Citadel would bring themselves to lie with someone they thought responsible for the greatest loss of the war? Let it have been Ignis, he hoped. Or a stranger. Someone who wouldn't teach Noctis to equate pleasure with repentance.

"It's easier," Gladio said, after the silence had stretched on a moment too long. "Doesn't make it right."

"Fine." Noct reached back and pulled out some of the more decorative pillows, setting them up beside him like a wall. "No reason to waste a perfectly good bed, though." 

He lay back down, burrowing into the covers, and Gladio settled on the other side, disrupting most of the pillows in the process. He remained unmoving under the sheets, but Noctis rolled towards him, one arm draped over his makeshift wall, brushing his shoulder in the faintest search for contact. For a moment the king tensed, but the man next to him was already sinking into sleep, more interested in the warmth of the bed than anything else. At last, Gladio released the breath he'd been holding, and let his own mind drift to a close.

 

\---

 

The next morning was warm and damp, air fizzing with the anticipation of rain. It was the sort of oncoming storm Gladio saw often in his youth—so heavy with the promise of a downpour that the trees seemed to swell beforehand, and the world took on a greenish tinge under the leaden sky. It was a day that made him think of home: Wide streets swept so clean that he could walk the city barefoot, new buildings framing old foundations in a haphazard jumble of uneven architecture, fresh flowers bursting from windowsills and verdant gardens hanging over the lip of every roof.

He looked down on the stone alleyway beneath the Leville balcony, and watched a woman kick aside a pile of garbage on her way to the power plant.

"Lost in thought?" Prince Noctis was standing behind him, being fitted for a prisoner's ankle cuff with a magic-jamming signal. When they made it to the capital, he would be given one more attuned to his own magic, instead of an all-purpose stop-gap like this one. As it was, he accepted the cuff with the same nonchalance he'd used at the theater with Nyx, which Gladio took to mean that it troubled him on some level, but he'd be damned if he showed it.

"Thinking of home," Gladio said, and turned from the window. "It'll be good to shake the dust of this city from my feet for a while."

"Gods, yes," Noctis said, as the attendant finished locking his cuff. He twisted his ankle, testing his foot for freedom of movement, and winked at the attendant. The attendant rolled her eyes and stood, bowing to Gladio before she left the room.

Ignis had sent his regrets that he couldn't say farewell in person—it would be too dangerous for him to be seen being too familiar with the former prince—but he'd also sent along a tray of what looked to be the flakiest, most decadent tarts known to man. Noctis smiled faintly when he saw them, but closed the box they came in before Gladio could get too close.

He doled them out at last when he and Gladio piled into the waiting line of cars set to take them out of the city and towards the Duscaen capital. On the other side of the street, they could see the Lucian delegation standing around their own cars, uncomfortable in their warm, muggy black finery. Drautos and Nyx were leaning against one of the larger vans, talking close. Drautos smiled; Nyx tilted his head back for a laugh. Watching them, Noctis' fingers tightened on the back of his seat.

"Hey," Gladio said, softly, and Noct closed his eyes for a moment before turning away.

"It won't be long," Gladio told him. "He's already set for a fall. The real work will start when we get back home."

"Right," Noctis said, in a distant voice. "Home."

The line of cars rumbled to life, one by one, and the Lucian delegation turned to stare as they slowly crawled their way down the main street of Lestallum. Noctis looked back to them, gazing at the diminishing black figures with a hunger that seemed to pour from his skin. The sky opened up at last with a thunderous roar, and the last Noctis could see of what remained of Lucis disappeared in a blinding dark curtain of rain.


	12. Chapter 12

The capital of Duscae was nestled in the foothills East of the Disc of Cauthess. From a distance, it looked like someone had upended a ruin, slung it over the hills like a blanket, and tacked on rows and rows of houses, shrines, and parks like an afterthought. The walls of the city gates were crawling with jasmine and honeysuckle, and bits of mirror and glass had been jammed between the vines and the bricks to double the flowers and cast a dappled light over the street below. When the cars of King Gladiolus’ entourage eased through, the spots on the street and the overwhelming green of the walls around them made Noct feel as though they were passing through a lake. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Gladio said. Noct shrugged. It was alright, for an overgrown garden. Noct was used to the neon lights and deceptive greenery of Insomnia—Groves of fruit trees hidden behind parking lots, moss growing in the cracks of a sidewalk, little gardens tucked away by canals and twenty-four-hour takeaways. Here, it seemed like the people of the city were only sticking around to take care of the _plants._

They parked in a lot on the second tier of the city. The third tier, as Gladio’s driver helpfully pointed out, was kept free of all vehicles and beasts save for those belonging to emergency services. Noct saw that when they stepped out of the cars, many of the junior officers took off their shoes with contented sighs.

“Um.” Noct glanced down, and saw the odd, mousy little boy that was always following Gladio around. _Talcott,_ that was his name. The boy was holding a blue overrobe in his arms, and Noct took it from him warily.

“For the walk to the palace,” Talcott said. When Noct gave him a curious look, he added, “Well. Most everyone wants to get a shot at the guy who killed King Clarus, right? King Gladiolus says that’d be _poor taste,_ so you’re wearing this.”

Noct smiled and wrestled his way into the robes. “What about you?” he asked. “Do _you_ want to have a go at the mage of Lucis?”

Talcott shook his head. “Not much I can do that wasn’t done already,” he said, and Noct was disturbed to find pity behind the boy’s dark eyes. He looked away quickly, rather than face that head-on, and turned to where the people of Gladiolus’ company were forming a rough set of lines. “Oh, gods, it’s a parade.”

“At least this way no one’s throwing vegetables at you,” Talcott said. “Just flowers. Come on, the king says you’re in section four, with me.” He dragged Noct into the crowd with all the authority provided to a boy in the king’s good graces, and ordered Noctis to stand in the center of a group of young, similarly dressed men and women. Noct tried to catch some of what they were saying, but their accents were so unlike what he was used to and their speech so fast that he gave up soon enough. 

Talcott tugged at his sleeve. “Look. There’s the palace, right up at the top of the mountain.”

Noct decided, in the throes of a rare moment of diplomacy, not to point out that a hill was barely a mountain, but couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. The building was large, surely, but it was low, almost carved into the rock of the hill itself. “I thought _that_ was the palace,” he said, pointing to a round-roofed, polished stone building shaped like a sun. Talcott frowned.

“No, that’s just the main library.”

Noct was about to ask what kind of a country favored _libraries_ over their own government, when a horn sounded, shaking the air around them. Noct immediately felt his muscles tense: It was the same horn call King Gladio’s army used at the start of battle. He pushed down the taste of copper on his tongue and tried to force his heartbeat to slow. He wasn’t in danger, here. Here, a prisoner of war in the center of an enemy city, miles from Lucis.

There was a chorus of clacking and snapping overhead, and second and third story windows all across the third tier of the city fell open. Arms emerged from the dark of the houses, baskets and cups and reed bowls, and the air grew thick with a riot of flowers as King Gladiolus Amicitia took his final steps towards home.

 

\---

 

Ignis Scientia was used to being in a precarious position at court. His role as the former prince Noctis’ advisor and confidant had subjected him to the sort of scrutiny that would have broken a lesser man—None of his reports, correspondence, or even the contents of his rooms in the Citadel were considered private since the fire. He was used to having to stand outside his door while bored, painstakingly _thorough_ investigators pored through his books, papers, dressers and tablets. At least they had the decency to tidy up, after. The first few times, Ignis had thrown such a fuss over the state of his rooms and office that the king himself issued an apology. 

It was a good thing, Ignis considered, that he wasn’t a disloyal man. There were many who would have turned on their country out of pure _spite_ after being treated with such suspicion. But Ignis was so clean of any scandal or blemish that even his continued contact with the prince over the years had been seen as just another sign of Ignis’ unflagging devotion to the crown.

That was, until the surrender was ratified. Now, Ignis was lucky if he could so much as _breathe_ without a helpful, bouncy little fellow popping up to ask him why. 

Even worse, Ignis was barely allowed to do his _job_ any longer. He found himself barred from select Council meetings, deterred from the audience hall of the king in the afternoons, met with blank stares when he requested information from clerks at the records office, and by the time he made it to the gym to find that his knives had been locked in a secure vault "by mistake," he was ready to give up and retire to his rooms for the evening. If no one was currently searching his rooms, of course. 

This made his assignation as the liaison between King Gladiolus’ auditors and the Insomnian intelligence department all the more laughable. He doubted the auditors, when they arrived, would be able to find anything of use in time. Ignis would have to find a way to do the work himself.

"Sometimes I think they're trying to give me an out, Iggy," Noct had told him, a few months after the fire had ravaged most of Lucis' army. He'd been lying on his stomach on a bedroll in his tent, his back too tender for any pressure heavier than an undershirt. "Like they expect me to run off to Duscae or Niflheim any second. And if I did, they wouldn't stop me."

"What happened was a tragic mistake," Ignis had told him. At the time, all he'd known was that Noctis had lost control of his magic. "Surely they're just... having a hard time understanding it."

Noct gave him a haunted look. "You weren't there, Specs. Trust me on this one. The moment there's a chance to get rid of me, it'll happen. You should keep your distance until then. It'll only get worse for you."

Ignis had refused to dignify that with a response, but sure enough, as soon as King Gladiolus asked for Noctis as an appeasement prize, Lucis couldn't be quick enough to wash its hands of him.

He wondered if Lucis was trying to give him an out, now. Well, Ignis had a task to fulfill, and that was to assist the prince... the true prince, in his duty to protect Lucis. If that meant he would have to claw his way through the doors now closed to him, so be it. Ignis smiled politely at the decidedly unhelpful clerks in the archives and helped himself to the shipping records between the Kingsglaive and outside contractors around the time of the fire. The task should have taken him an hour at most, with the assistance of the archivists and clerks, but Ignis was left alone, so he spent a good four hours poring through coded supply lists before he found anything worth noting. 

The supply records for a period of a week and a half before the fire were missing from their designated file. Ignis raised his brows. This was enough to warrant a full investigation, if it came to the notice of the Amicitia auditors. He couldn't very well take the file out of the room himself anymore, so he made the error just a little more obvious by switching the labels on the file with that of another folder, then placing the file in the wrong section. He closed the cabinet with an aggrieved sigh, hoping that the clerks would not have noticed his momentary surprise, and left the archives with every indication of a man on the edge of his patience.

 

\---

 

"Gladdy!"

Noct had to stand on his toes to get a good look at Iris Amicitia, princess and de-facto ruler of Duscae for the past four years. She was barely into her late teens, with Gladio's dark hair and easy smile, and she was decked out in a blue and silver dress with drooping, delicate braids on the shoulders and waist. The effect was ruined by her heavy black boots, but the crowd in front of the palace bowed to her as though she were a true queen. She wrapped her arms around Gladiolus' neck and let him lift her off the ground in an enthusiastic bear-hug.

"Iris is a genius," Talcott said, at Noct's side. "She set up the solar powered daemon lights for the second tier, and they're already dedicating a park to her."

"Do you have _room_ for another park?" Noct asked. Talcott rolled his eyes. Before them, Gladio and Iris were speaking softly, beaming at each other with true affection. Something in that made Noctis go cold: He fell back a step, training his gaze on the lip of the hill stretching over the palace roof. Where was his father, now? In the throne room, possibly, giving reports to Ignis to summarize. With Nyx. Consulting with Titus. 

Noct's hand slid up the sleeve of the robe he wore, and he ran his fingers over the black sleeve of the jacket beneath. It was a Lucian cloth, tailored in the Citadel. The dyes came from an island that catered only to the royal family of Insomnia. Noct gripped it tight as Gladio's face turned towards him, and he nearly laughed at the way the king's smile began to fade. 

"The king wants you," Talcott said, his voice sounding muffled and far away.

"I'm sure he does," Noct said, and Talcott gave him a wary look. Noct ignored him and pushed through the milling crowd as the parade broke up, well aware that he was being flanked by guards on either side. He stopped just a step behind Gladio and turned his gaze to Iris, who looked him over with open caution. As a prince, a deep bow would be sufficient, but Noctis was a prisoner, and the man who had slain her father. He took a knee. 

"Iris," Gladio said, in a voice that belied none of the discomfort with which he'd shown to Noct on the long drive there, "allow me to introduce Noctis Lucis Caelum."

Something of the dark mood in Noctis saw the alarm in her eyes and spoke for him, soft and smooth as the prince he'd never managed to be. 

"Otherwise known as the wild mage," he said, and winked. Iris flushed pink with an anger that would have overtaken Gladiolus, and Noct laughed softly to himself as the princess turned and stalked off, a mirage of blue and silver, into the palace.

"Well," King Gladiolus said, resting a hand on Noctis' shoulder. "Never let it be said that you don't know how to make a first impression."


	13. Chapter 13

King Gladiolus paused at the entrance to his royal chambers. 

Not much had changed in the palace since Gladio was here last. It had been three years since the last ceasefire had allowed his father enough of a reprieve to visit the capital, and Gladio had spent most of his time drowning in reports and supply lists. Iris was still a child, then, and the wreath she’d worn in her hair to signify her status as a steward had slipped over her ears as she followed him through the halls of the palace. Now, the wreath fit her perfectly, thin and silver and nestled in her dark hair as though it had been made for her. 

“We moved your things in a few weeks ago,” she said, as he set foot on the blue and silver rug that had borne his father’s weight for over twenty years. There were a few new vases, a fresh set of curtains, his own clothes pressed and folded on a hurdle by the closet. But the place even smelled of his father, and Gladio felt his throat go tight as he ran his fingers over the carved calla lilies in the marble of the fireplace.

“I’m glad you’re home, Gladdy,” Iris said. She placed a warm hand on his arm, and he pulled her to his side, wrinkling her perfect dress. “The place is just too refined without you around.”

“I feel so loved,” Gladio said, and his sister snickered. He spotted his father’s old chess set and pulled out one of the chairs, bowing a little too low. “Want to try your luck?”

Iris smirked. “Kings should be humble,” she said, but took the seat anyways. Gladio sat opposite her, propping his elbows on the table, and watched as she carefully lifted a crystal pawn. “And don’t underestimate me."

“I never do.” Gladio trailed his fingers over his pieces and watched her gaze track the board, trying to guess his moves ahead of time. 

“Tell me about that mage you brought with you,” Iris said, as Gladio moved one of his knights. “The one who…” She glanced up, towards the painted portrait that hung over the mantle, and let out a short breath. The image of their father looked down on them, frozen in a stiff smile, eternally ten years younger than the man they’d known. Gladio followed her gaze and placed a rough hand over hers.

“It’s a little more complicated than all that,” he said. 

“Why am I not surprised?” Iris took one of his pawns. “So? Come on, Gladdy. Tell me about this _wild mage of Lucis.”_

Gladio sighed, picked up a rook, and considered where to begin.

 

\---

 

“Titus!”

Prince Noctis burst through the entrance of Captain Drautos’ tent, looking like a disheveled raven in his black cloak and ragged mage robes. He had dust in his hair, caked, blackened mud on his boots, and his hands were stained reddish brown, as though he’d been digging in the earth. Drautos took in his bedraggled state, lowered the sheaf of reports he was poring through, and motioned for his companions to leave. As his men left the tent, they brushed against the prince rudely, knocking him back. Noctis barely seemed to notice.

“Titus,” he said again, in a lower tone. “I was at the front—“

“Examining your handiwork?” Drautos’ voice was so cold that Noctis rocked back, looking as though the air had been knocked from his lungs. 

“No. No, I wouldn’t—I was trying to figure out what went wrong.” Noct took a step forward, balked at the glower in the captain’s face, and ran a filthy hand through his hair. “I think the fire was extended deliberately, Titus. It had to be the enemy, they had to’ve known—“

The captain stood, and the prince flinched under his withering gaze. “You can’t even own up to your mistakes like a man,” he said, and Noctis’ lips parted in shock. “I should have listened when I was told you were too dangerous to take to the field. A little leeway, and you destroy your own people to make a point?”

“No, I’d never—“

Drautos was upon him, then, towering over him, the heat of his body oppressive in the ever-present summer that gripped Liede. His fingers ghosted over the prince’s neck, and Noct tilted his chin up reflexively, leaning in to his touch, before they tightened on his jaw. 

“Who,” Drautos said, in a low, dreadful rumble, “set the fire?”

 

"I did."

"Did what, now?"

Noctis opened his eyes to the warm glow of a bedside lamp. It took him a minute to remember where he was. The bed he lay in was shaped wrong, all rounded edges and tightly-woven sheets with garish designs, and there were wood carvings all along the ceiling above him, depicting the rise of the first Oracle. He could smell wood polish, soap, and the faint hint of a floral perfume. Of course. He was in the Duscaen capital, Arum, in a guest-room-turned-cell that he'd been unceremoniously locked in and forgotten for most of the day. Not that he expected anything better—It was a far cry from his living arrangements in Gladiolus' camp at the border—but the sudden absence of people, of even sound, had brought to mind his time in the army after the fire, and the few weeks he spent in the palace, wandering the halls like a ghost. 

"Or you can _not_ answer. That's fine, too."

Noct jumped, his fingers spasming on the coverlet, and turned to the voice. King Gladiolus sat next to the door, thumbing through a large, leather-bound book. After a moment of astonished staring, he glanced up and raised an eyebrow in Noct's direction.

"Couldn't sleep," he said, in a tone so casual Noct wanted to _strangle_ him. " _Someone_ kept waking me up in the middle of the night, back at the fortress. So I thought I'd see how he was getting on. You know, old habits."

Noct dug his fingers through his hair. "What is it you _want,_ Your Majesty?"

"I told you," Gladio said. He lifted the book slightly, as though that were any sort of answer. "I can leave..."

"No." Noct winced at how quickly that came out. "No. That's. This is fine."

Gladiolus hummed noncommittally and turned back to his book. Noctis settled back down, still watching him, and slowly felt his heartbeat ease its frantic pulse in his throat. He waited for the king to speak, to pose a question, to move. But Gladio only sat there, quiet and calm, smiling down at the book as though it were the only concern on his mind. 

"Will you at least—" Noct faltered as Gladio turned to face him again. "What... what are you reading?"

"Something you'd like, I think," Gladio told him. The light cloth of his nightshirt was thin enough that Noct could see his tattoo shifting beneath it as he moved, a blur of dark feathers. "All about deceit and revenge." He turned the cover towards him, and shook it slightly. "Have you ever...?"

Noct smiled. "I'm not really one for reading."

"Shame."

"But if you wanted to," Noct said, unsure how to phrase this strange, almost urgent request. "I won't say no."

The look Gladiolus gave him at that was almost warm, and Noctis felt himself shrink back into the secure darkness of the bed. "Sure," said the king, and flipped to the start of the book. 

"Chapter one," he said, in a dreamy tone. "Marseilles: The Arrival..."

 

Noct dragged himself out of bed around noon the next morning, and found his room to be drowning in sunlight. The windows of the room were too high to reach, but cleverly placed mirrors spread the light out so that he hardly needed to turn on the bedside lamp. The lamp which was, Noct saw, shaped like a massive lily. 

“At least they stick to a theme,” he mumbled. He placed his hand on the bedside table to steady himself, and nearly knocked off the soft paperback book that Gladio had been reading the night before. He smiled grimly at it and tucked it under his arm.

There was a small bathroom off to the side, complete with a large, claw-foot tub that took up most of the space in the center of the room. Noct set to filling it immediately, rummaged in the cabinets for supplies, and tipped half a bottle of bath oils into the steaming water. 

By the time he climbed out of the tub, wrinkled and smelling like a summer garden had thrown up in the bath, it was mid-afternoon, and someone was knocking on his door. He set the book (slightly warped with steam) on the bed and wrenched open the shutter over his closet.

“Unless you _want_ to see me naked,” he shouted, “Give me a minute.”

The knocking stopped, thank the Six. He pulled on one of the only outfits that didn’t look like they would drown him in yards of fabric, and hastily ran his hands through his damp hair. He didn’t look half presentable, but it’s not like he was _expected_ anywhere.

“Alright,” he said. 

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Um,” said a soft voice on the other end of the door. Noct sighed and opened it, revealing Iris Amicitia, dressed in a sensible grey shirt and denim pants. She looked like she’d just come back from a run, and she had an elaborate hairpin sticking up out of the corner of her jeans pocket. 

“Your highness,” Noct said. Iris drummed her fingers on her hip. 

“You missed breakfast,” Iris said, shortly. “ _And_ lunch.” When Noct just stared at her, her face flushed a curious shade of red. “Well, you aren’t here to _starve_ to death. I asked for something to be brought to the northern library, if you’re interested.”

“The l—“ Noct groaned. “How many libraries do you _have?_ ”

“In the palace? Just the five.”

Noct saw the stubborn set of her chin, so like her older brother it was almost laughable, and gave in. He _was_ hungry, and it wasn’t like he could hide away in his new room forever, decadent bath or no. He stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. 

The library where his lunch—or dinner, Noct wasn’t too sure on the time—was served was little more than a drawing room stuffed high with bookshelves. Noct sat uneasily in one of the over-fluffed chairs at the table and watched Iris walk about the room, running her hands along the spines of the worn, musty books. 

“You can eat, you know,” Iris said, after a while. 

Noct leaned on his elbow, picking out a cucumber sandwich from the pile of food on the plate before him. “What’s this for?” he asked, gesturing to the table. Iris turned to him, her brows creasing slightly in a frown.

“Gladdy said you were suspicious.”

“Yes, well, that’s what happens when you...” He stopped himself just in time. Iris wasn’t Gladio, even if they _did_ have the same eyes and subtle mannerisms. “I’ve been in enemy hands for a while now, your highness.”

Iris’ expression darkened. “I know.” She sat on a bench and drew up her knees, looking less like a princess and more like one of the young Kingsglaive recruits at the Citadel. “I guess I’m trying to figure out what I think about you.”

“You and everyone else.” Noct chased away a pile of glazed carrots—of _course_ there’d be _carrots_ —and grinned at her, all teeth. “Well, now’s your chance to ask.”

“What do you _like?_ ” 

Noct froze, a sandwich halfway to his mouth. “What?”

Iris shrugged. “I know all about what you… what people say you are. The people you’ve killed. The _way_ you killed them. What happened… after.” She looked away, as though reading the spines of the books beside her. “But what do you _like?_ Was it all just the fighting? The war? There wasn’t anything else?”

Noct looked down at his hands. He thought of sitting in the enormous chairs of his father’s study, kicking his feet over the sides as the king laughed and filed away reports for the afternoon. He thought of the smell of his father’s car, the thrill of running through gardens he wasn’t allowed to enter yet, Ignis’ worried voice calling out far behind. He remembered the taste of Ignis’ first attempt at baking—too much baking powder, not enough sugar—and the sound of music winding through the corridors during a military ball. Then the surge of pride as he put on the uniform of a Kingsglaive recruit, the shadows that danced on the wall as he made shapes out of fire in the late afternoon. And after, when the world had tipped sideways and he didn’t know _himself_ anymore, the webs of lightning he’d string on the windows, the cool comfort of swirling patterns of ice on his hands and arms.

“Magic,” he said. Iris turned to him, and he twisted his foot, feeling the smooth weight of the jamming cuff on his ankle. “Before… everything, I did like the magic.”

 

\---

 

Ignis was being followed.

Not being one to rely on instinct alone, the future advisor to the king of Lucis faced this concern with objective calm and poise. A lingering trickle of dread down the back of his neck, an urge to glance sideways over his shoulder, and an itch on his skin when he changed for weapons practice was not enough to confirm his suspicions. So he resolved to do something that would have made a younger prince Noctis reel back in shock: Ignis Scientia made a mess.

He decided on flour. It was an easy enough conceit to explain away, as baking was somewhat of a hobby of his. No one could blame him, could they, if he accidentally forgot to dust off his hands until after he left the kitchen? And if the flour fell to the left of the main hallway he passed at this time every day, where a person could easily watch him without drawing his eye... what of it? Nothing unusual there.

Ignis took his time walking to the records office, then doubled back abruptly. There was a shuffle, a patter of feet, but by the time he made it to the side hallway, no one was there.

What there were, however, were footprints. 

He tried the same tactic the next day, and found the same neat, ridged pleats of a pair of boots in the flour.

Next, he tried an alcove near his office. Same boots again. Then he decided to take a stroll around the room where he trained in the afternoons, and found those familiar prints in the soft earth just below the window.

Yes, Ignis was being followed. And he had a fairly good idea who was behind it all.

It was time for him to visit the captain of the Kingsglaive. Not while he was in, of course. He knew that Captain Drautos ate lunch with the rest of the Lucian Council, and since Ignis was conveniently barred from that particular conference room, he had just enough time to search for anything that could look like the captain's private correspondence.

He was just passing through the Kingsglaive practice court when he heard a clatter of footsteps behind him.

"Dude!"

Ignis barely had time to react before an elbow clipped him on the back of the head, a broom handle jabbed into his spine, and a blonde, freckled disaster on legs sent him sprawling onto the stone.

"Oh gods!" A pale, worried face shoved itself into his as a bony hand clamped on his shoulder, holding him down. "I'm so sorry! I tried to warn you! I was," he slipped just as Ignis tried to rise, slinging them to the ground again, "I was going too fast and I. Your glasses, I'm so sorry." 

Ignis blinked muzzily up at the young man pinning him down with the head of a broom and a heavy boot, and tried to focus on what he was holding in his hands. Unfortunately, his vision without his glasses was something of a mess in close quarters, and all he could see was the mirage of too many fingers holding something small and grey and shattered.

"Oh," he said. 

"I'll pay for new ones!" his assailant wailed. "I swear!"

"No, no," Ignis said, slowly pushing himself to all fours. "That won't be necessary. I have a spare set in my office."

The young man yanked him up by the arms. "Then I should help you!" he cried. "To your office! Because you. Because without your. Because you won't be able to..."

Ignis fixed him with a tense smile. "I'll let you figure that out, shall I?" he said, and turned to double back to his office. A hand grabbed him by the suspenders, but not quick enough to prevent him from spotting the three uniform, strangely deep holes in the wall, just at a height with where Ignis' eyes would have been before the collision. He reached up to touch one of them, and the wall around the hole was warm. A bullet? No, his finger grazed over something sharp... A dart, then. But surely Ignis would have heard it strike the wall...

He turned slowly, and squinted at the half-blurry face of the blonde man with the broom. The man made a furtive, ducking motion, but Ignis' hand was much faster, and he held him in an immovable grip.

The man in his hold moaned.

"Oh, _shit."_

"An apt assessment of where you're standing at the moment," Ignis said. "But don't you know, I believe I shall take you up on that offer to accompany me after all."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iris makes a totally not at all hasty decision that won't backfire in the slightest! Ignis gets a not-boyfriend.

Ignis’ not-so-mysterious stalker, as it turned out, was a twenty-one-year-old janitor with a penchant for photography, a tendency to stammer when pressed, and all the secret-keeping skills of a small child. 

His name was Prompto Argentum: He’d been recruited by the government of Duscae as a low-level spy at the age of sixteen, and had spent most of his time taking harmless photos of the Kingsglaive barracks and training grounds before he was reassigned to follow Ignis. He was following _Ignis,_ apparently, at the behest of King Gladiolus himself. 

Ignis learned all of this within the span of two minutes. He didn’t even have to _glower_ at the man.

“And they _said,_ ” Prompto babbled, as he cowered against the wall of a storage shed just outside of the Citadel, “that as someone close to the prince, you’ll probably be, you know, targeted. So I was supposed to watch you, except you were, you were watching _me?_ ”

Ignis sighed. “Generally,” he said, “foreign spies don’t spill out all their secrets in the course of an afternoon.”

“Yeah, except I’m not really a spy,” Prompto said. “I’m just a guy who takes pictures and tells the people above me what I know.”

“Prompto, that’s the _definition_ of—“ Ignis looked at the terrified, wide-eyed man before him and paused. “Do you know _who_ was trying to kill me? Or why?”

Prompto shook his head. “No clue. I’m watching _you,_ remember?”

“Don’t you think it might be prudent to keep an eye on those who might want to—“ No, that would go nowhere. 

“Anyways, they weren’t trying to kill you.” Ignis leaned back, and Prompto stumbled upright against a box of power tools. He pulled out one of the darts they’d retrieved from the wall, twirling it in his fingers. “I know what _this_ is. You use them on rabid chocobos, right? Faze them out, make them wobbly? Except it’s a lot worse on people. Kids in the city use them to, uh. You know.”

Ignis pressed a hand to his forehead. “A narcotic?”

“Sort of.”

So someone wanted Ignis to be caught under the influence of a recreational drug? Or were they trying to change his behavior, make him seem erratic, unreliable? Ignis heaved himself onto a tool bench and ran a finger over the bridge of his spare glasses. At the other side of the shed, the blonde spy wriggled uncomfortably.

“I have a proposition,” Ignis said. Prompto jumped, knocking over a paint can. "No. I have an order. Since it is your job to _watch_ me," he said, slipping off the bench, "I believe it would be better for everyone if you _dropped_ the subtlety."

"Dropped the _what?_ "

Which was how, in the eyes of the Lucian court, Ignis Scientia finally broke down and found himself a man.

The rumor mill, already twisting the possibility of treason around Ignis like the coils of a snake, lurched under the unexpected appearance of a young, jittery blonde who appeared in Ignis’ office the next morning with a bag of cheap takeout and a blush deep enough to reach his roots. Clerks who had glared at him with suspicion craned their necks around desks and file cabinets as Ignis, perfectly well-put-together Ignis Scientia, smiled at the blonde like he was the missing file in a stack of end-of-year financial reports and pulled him in for a chaste kiss on the cheek. 

“Were you followed?” he whispered. 

“Want a list?” Prompto asked.

Ignis pulled back and drummed his fingers on his desk. “I really shouldn’t,” he said, in a loud voice, deep with regret. “I have so much yet to do this afternoon…”

“The Council’s still closed,” one of the clerks said, unable to stop herself. Ignis looked at her in surprise. “If you need to take a lunch.”

“For once,” said the blonde. For the first time in any of his staff’s knowledge, Ignis’ cheeks colored a faint, but noticeable pink. 

“Oh, I suppose an hour won’t hurt,” Ignis said at last, rising from his chair. He tilted his head towards Prompto, and his voice dropped to a purr. “For you.”

They were out of the Citadel, walking fast, before Prompto finally lost his composure and burst into a cackle of laughter.

“You know,” he said, passing Ignis a wrap in a bundle of parchment paper. “When my mom and dad said they wanted me to find someone nice and settle down, I don’t think they thought it’d be like _this._ ”

“Should’ve picked a different line of work, then,” Ignis said, in his usual, dry tone. “So. Tell me, my _love,_ how many people did you see follow us out of the office?”

 

\---

 

Iris Amicitia wasn’t fond of parties. She saw their purpose: It was a good way to assess the ever-changing political and social alliances within her own court, maybe even guide them a little in the direction she wanted. When her father was alive, they used to treat it like a game: _Do you see Duke Loren? Who is he watching? Why is he watching them? Go and find out, little flower._ Gladio didn’t care for it: He was too eager to make friends rather than manipulate the friendships of others. 

So even though the true king had returned at last, it was Iris’ job to flit about the dance floor at the victory ball like an overdressed hummingbird in blue silk, smiling and pouting and cajoling in turns. The returning militia found her to be _so composed,_ the members of the court called her _our jewel,_ and those she counted as her friends whispered _Iris, you dork,_ as she pushed their shoulders and playfully slapped the backs of their heads in passing. Her dance card was full by the first half hour, and she was already exhausted. 

“Do you ever slow down?” Gladio asked, as she nudged her brother towards the ambassador from Niflheim. Iris ducked to give him a private, deeply sarcastic scowl, and he pushed aside a silver ornament that was slipping down her ear. “Sorry. I’ll behave, I promise.”

“Good.” She introduced him to the new ambassador, who smiled at her and commented on how lovely she’d become, and left them to it. She had a little while before her first dance, which gave her time to— _damn,_ where were the guards who were supposed to be watching the library? 

She turned on her heel, surveying the wide ballroom. It glittered with mirrors that reflected the little hanging lights tied to the rafters, making it look like they had twice as many candles, flowers, and decorative hangings, and it was hard to blink through the mess to count the guards. There were only twelve in sight, which was odd, as there should have been at least thirty. She spotted one slipping through a side door leading out to the gardens, and felt a weight drop in her stomach.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” she said, running to Gladio’s side. She tapped the circlet on his forehead to ease the sting of the title, and scrunched up her eyes in a smile when he gave her an exasperated look. “I’m going outside for a minute, so don’t start the first dance without me. It’s tradition.”

Typically, it was only tradition for the king and queen to dance, but since they hadn’t had a queen for almost a decade, the role had always fallen to her. Gladio tweaked her nose and promised, and she strode towards the gate to the garden, trying to look like she simply needed a breath of fresh air.

It didn’t take long for her to spot a flash of silver and blue—a guard, walking far past the bounds he should have been given. Iris reached for the dagger she kept under her sash and wished it weren’t considered rude to keep her broadsword behind the throne. She kept her footsteps quiet as she followed the guard’s shadow, and held up the polished, mirror-like bracelet on her wrist to check for anyone who might be trailing her. If this was an attack—If someone thought that the Amicitias would be made weak in their hour of victory—They would have a hard lesson coming to them.

 

\---

 

Noct kicked off his shoes and lay upside down on the bed, flipping idly through one of the books Gladio had left for him in the hopes that he wouldn’t scare half the staff with a friendly smile gone awry again. Really, the people of that country were _so_ skittish when faced with the possibility of magic. Not that Noct blamed them, really. He wondered, in the dark, dangerous way that threatened to send him over the edge into an introspective spiral, how many widows and widowers in the palace alone had buried a loved one brought down by _his_ hand. Enough, he supposed. He always went after officers, and there were plenty of _those_ wandering the palace.

He’d just skimmed through an absolutely horrifying penny romance when he heard the door open. Assuming it was Gladio—Not many could override the lock in this room—Noct didn’t bother looking up.

“Don’t miss your own victory ball, Your Majesty,” he said. 

“He hasn’t.” Noct tensed. He didn’t recognize that voice. He dropped the book to the floor and rolled onto his belly, facing the hard-eyed guards who had stepped into the doorway. 

“Oh, _this_ feels familiar,” Noct managed to say, before the first guard stepped forward, and a firm hand gathered the cloth of his collar in a tight fist.

 

\---

 

It didn’t take Iris long to find the source of the disturbance. After a minute of walking, she heard a chorus of raised voices, and the shuffling of boots against sand so hard-packed that it squeaked like stone. The training yards came into view, and Iris held her breath at the sight.

Noctis Lucis Caelum, the former prince of Lucis, stood in the center of a ring of men and women. He was wearing a black undershirt and soft cotton pants, and his hair was flat and mussed—He must have been dragged out of bed with no time to change. There was a sword at his feet, and one of the guards who had arrived from the warfront was standing before him, hefting another sword in a steady grip.

“Don’t make this too easy for us, king-slayer.” The guard’s voice carried over the rows of benches leading up to Iris’ spot overlooking the yards. “Don’t tell me you’ve never picked up a sword before.”

Iris cursed and started taking off her jewelry, setting it on the bench in front of her.

“Not really my thing,” Noctis drawled. Gods, his voice was made to offend, wasn’t it? Iris kicked off her useless shoes. 

The guard shrugged, and a ripple of laughter ran through the onlookers. Then he swung his sword in a wide arc, and Iris climbed onto the bench and jumped down to the next just as the blade struck—

Nothing, it turned out. Noctis had rolled out of range just in time, twisting his foot under the guard’s to send the other man stumbling. A hush ran through the crowd, and the guard lunged. Noctis danced out of his way. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Were we starting already?”

Iris jumped down to the next bench. Noctis sidestepped in a circuitous motion, keeping his gaze on the guard’s torso in the way Iris had been taught during her own weapons’ training. Whoever had trained the prince had done their job well. He seemed to know that the sword would only slow him down, and was trying to wear out his opponent rather than fight back. 

That tactic could have even _worked,_ if it weren’t for the thirty-odd guards who waited for their turn. 

Iris dropped onto the sand. One or two of the guards closest to her spotted her and blanched, backing away. A silence pooled out from her advancing steps, and by the time she reached the center of the rough circle the guards had formed, she had a full audience. 

“Guardsman,” she said, and the man standing before Noctis paused, cheeks flushing red. “What are you doing with the noble guest that my brother, the _king,_ has taken into his custody?”

“Your Highness.” The man’s voice dripped with condescension. “This man is hardly a noble. He’s a killer. He slew the late king, Astrals bless him, and will not hesitate to do it again. We act in the interests of protecting the royal family.”

“You do?” Iris asked. She glanced at Noctis, who was panting slightly, the hems of his pants light with dust. “Do we _need_ protection?” 

There was an uncomfortable silence as Iris approached the man who had killed her father. He was only a few inches taller than her, with delicate features and the same deceptive lack of defined muscle in his arms as Iris. When she looked into his eyes, she saw a hint of what her brother had described to her: Fear, but pride as well, hidden beneath a mask of indifference. 

“He won’t hurt me,” she said. 

“Only because he’s been muzzled,” said the guard, and Iris whipped around. 

She stood before war-hardened men and women, a young girl in bare feet and precious silks, and her voice was cold and high. “Servants of the crown,” she said. “To whom do you owe _your_ protection?”

The guards from the palace knelt first. Those from the warfront followed shortly after, but it wasn’t much longer than the space of a few breaths before she could see over all of them, a small pool of bowed heads and tense, straight shoulders. 

Noctis whistled low, and she turned to him.

“Should _I_ kneel?” he asked. 

Iris didn’t bother with a response. She nudged the sword on the ground with her toes. “My people think you’re a killer,” she said. “They aren’t wrong. My father said that everyone becomes a killer in wartime. Even diplomats.” She saw Noctis’ brows raise slightly. “But you wouldn’t kill me.”

“I don’t exactly see a reason to,” Noctis admitted.

“Even if you did have a reason,” Iris said, “You wouldn’t. But it seems my people have _forgotten_ that. Have you ever fought an Amicitia, prince Noctis?”

“I fight your brother all the time, Your Highness.”

Iris barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “Someone bring me my broadsword,” she ordered. “Now, please.” She bunched up her overdress and slipped it off, leaving her in a light cotton shift. “But you haven’t _really_ fought one of us.”

_You can tell much about a man’s character by the way he fights,_ her father had told her, once. _A good man makes it quick, painless. A cruel man takes his time._

_Which one are you?_ Iris wondered. She’d been told that her father had died almost instantly, consumed by the fire that had taken him. But Noctis, he’d planned that death, arranged it with the care of an artist. Whatever Gladio had to say about him, Iris wanted to find out who he was her _own_ way. 

A young woman handed her the hilt of her favorite sword. It was almost as long as Iris, with a strange ridge down the center, and she pushed it point first into the ground. 

“I believe in fair fights,” she said. “You didn’t give my father one. Not really. But now you have the chance to try again.” 

“Your Highness,” Noctis told her. “I don’t think this is—“

There was a susurrus of whispers as Iris crouched at the young man’s feet. She pressed her finger and thumb to the DNA lock beneath the magic-jamming cuff around Noctis’ ankle. It opened with a hiss, and she set it aside. 

When she stood, the prince’s gaze was sharp and wary. 

“Go on,” she said, picking up her sword in both hands. “Show me what the mage of Lucis is truly capable of.”

The prince stared at her. He flexed his fingers, slow and careful, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the thin line round his pupils flashed violet.

A sword dropped into his hand in a shower of light. 

“As Your Highness commands.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that I don't condone what's going on in this piece of fiction, and it gets called out as horrible. But again, as warned, it's a fucked up situation and if it's distressing to you like it is to me, you should definitely stop reading at this point.
> 
>  
> 
> If this makes you angry enough to send me rape threats, keep in mind that I wrote this partly cos my abuser kept going after me to forgive them. This isn't a romantic story, it's about how you don't have to forgive people, especially if you lapse and sometimes fall back into the habits you learned while trying to survive. And sometimes people do work hard to heal the hurt but that doesn't mean you are obligated to forgive.
> 
> But yeah if you want to send me rape threats I guess this site won't stop you.

Noctis hit the dirt of the royal training yards with a crack that made the _air_ ache.

A shout alerted him to the near-silent footfalls of the youngest Amicitia—He lifted his right hand and summoned a magical wall, which sloped over him like the curve of a wave. Iris, sword in hand, leapt onto the wall, ignoring the sting of the magic against her bare feet, and rolled onto it. Noct saw where she was going a moment too late, and couldn’t drag himself free in time before she went somersaulting over the edge. She hooked her foot under his chin and _yanked._ Noct let himself be dragged for a few inches before he cast an ice spell over her ankle, sharp enough to blister. Iris yelped and fell back.

Around them, the circle of guards were slowly thinning. Noct assumed at least a few were running to inform Gladiolus, or Cor, or possibly an executioner, that the mage was free and giving the princess of Duscae frostbite while she charged at him like a hawk from the sky. He didn’t have much time to contemplate his eventual demise, however, as Iris, relentless and _devastating,_ swept her sword in an arc on the ground, kicking up dust.

“Foul!” Noct shouted, smiling despite himself. Who knew the princess could fight dirty?

“Don’t complain!” Iris emerged from the cloud of dust, and Noct sank to a crouch to block a strike to his side. “You have _magic._ ”

“Oh,” Noct said, “that’s _right._ ” He dragged a line of fire between his fingers, pulling it from the air like a deadly rope, and flung it towards the girl. It coiled around her head, cutting off her air supply. Behind him, he heard the shriek of metal as several guards drew their weapons, but Iris decided for them by _running through the fire_ towards Noctis. 

Noct fell back before her, and tried to freeze the fingers of her sword hand shut. She dodged just in time, and Noct’s magic hung in a heavy cloud where her arm had been.

Iris jammed her sword into the packed earth and placed a foot on the hilt. There was a click as the sword split, and Noctis warped out of range as Iris grasped at the metal hilt of the second, smaller sword that had been fused to the first.

“ _Two in one?_ ” the prince asked. Iris grinned.

“You have your advantage, I have mine.” She used the hilt of the larger sword for ballast and vaulted into the air. The blade of the smaller sword in her hand grazed so close to Noctis that a spray of fine, dark hair puffed into his eyes, and he had to roll to avoid her.

This, as Noct soon discovered, was a mistake. His foot slipped on the rut that her sword had made a moment before. Iris smiled grimly and slid between his legs as he stumbled, the blade of her short sword digging deep into his boots and running a line along the skin just where his tendons would have been. Before Noct could react, she swung up behind him, grabbed him by the nostrils, and dragged his head back. The steel of her blade against his neck was cold, and when she pulled him down over her knee, the awkward angle caused the prince to lose his footing. She fell with him, sword still pressed to his throat, hand over his face, and his breath came out hot against her fingers.

“Damn!” he croaked. 

“Is that a _Yes, I yield?_ ” Iris asked. 

A minute nod. Iris withdrew her sword, and Noct let out a heavy breath. Then his shoulders started to shake, and he rolled forward, pulling himself to his feet.

“That,” he gasped, amid wheezes of laughter, “was the most—terrifying shit—I have seen—in my _life_.”

“Gee,” Iris said. “Thanks. Well.” She raised her voice. “Are you all satisfied?”

“Like _hell_ I am.”

Noct knew _that_ voice. The leftover adrenaline and weeks of habit took over: He fell, hitting the ground on his knees so hard that his bones shook. Well, it had been nice while it lasted. He wondered how long it would take for someone to recover the stasis collar.

At his side, Iris turned towards the sound of her brother’s voice. King Gladiolus stood just at the edge of the circle of onlookers, all of whom were kneeling and casting each other furtive, desperate looks. “Um,” said Iris. “About this.”

“My fault,” Noct said. “I challenged her.”

“He did _not,_ ” Iris insisted. “Gladdy, this was my decision. The guards were… were toying with him, and I wanted to prove that I could take care of my—“ 

“So you took the jamming cuff off of a known war mage,” Gladio said, and Iris flushed a deep pink, “and asked him to _fight_ you.”

“…Yes.”

“Gods above.” Gladio pulled at his face with both hands. “Alright. All of you,” he said to the surrounding men and women, “I’ll see you at muster bright and early tomorrow. And don’t think I’m no good at recognizing faces.” The crowd dispersed at his unspoken dismissal, leaving Iris, Gladio, and the still recovering Noctis alone in the training yards.

“Doing alright there?” Gladio asked him. 

Noctis took a few gulping breaths. “What?” he asked. Gladio looked him up and down and stepped closer, and Noct stiffened involuntarily.

“The woman who reported to me said you were being harassed in some way,” Gladio said. 

_That’s_ what had him worried? “I just fought your sister,” Noct said, “and you’re asking me if _I’m—_ ”

“Iris is a daemon with the sword,” Gladio interrupted. “She can handle herself.”

“I think I can see that,” Noct told him. “You should’ve put _her_ in charge at the front, Your Majesty. She would’ve won the war in a day.”

“Yes, well,” Gladio said. “It would’ve gone to her head.”

“She’s right here, you know,” said Iris. She wriggled back into her gown. “Did I miss the first dance?”

“Second and third, too,” Gladio told her. “Also, speaking of, you’re grounded.”

“ _What?_ Gladdy, you can’t—“ Iris looked up at her brother’s impassive expression and sighed. “Fine. You’re the king.”

“At least someone remembers.” Gladio picked up the jamming cuff and jerked his head at Noct, who slowly got to his feet. He looked at Iris, her hair swept up in a tangled mess, her dress barely hiding her scuffed toes, and held up a hand to the king. 

“Wait.” 

Gladio paused as Noctis lifted his hands. Ice spiraled above his fingers, twisting in complex coils that solidified and branched out like the fronds of a fern. It took the span of a few breaths for his magical working to be complete: A fragile laurel crown made of ice, speckled with flowers as delicate as spun sugar violets. Iris brushed it with her fingers, and hissed at the stinging chill that stuck to her skin.

“Is this a tradition of yours?” she asked. “Late night victory laurels?” Moonlight sparkled off the leaves, casting the wreath in a kaleidoscope of color. 

“It’s just something I learned to do to pass the time,” Noct said. He lifted the wreath over her head. “Laugh if you want, but I don’t want my last spell to be trying to freeze a princess’ hand shut.”

“You’re wasted as a warrior,” Iris said. 

“Is that what the fight taught you?” he asked.

“Sort of.” She smoothed down her hair around the wreath. “I mean, Daddy would’ve wiped the floor with you, one-on-one, but I don’t think that’s all of it.” Her smile was small. “We probably would’ve been friends, if there hadn’t been a war.”

“Probably,” Noct said. “Not me and your brother, though. He’s kind of an asshole.”

Gladio grunted. “Right. You _almost_ redeemed yourself with the magical jewelry, but you’re right back on the shit list, Highness.” Noct grinned at him shakily, and the king wrapped an arm around his sister before she could pipe up with yet another insult to his character.

Later that night, after Iris had found her shoes and scrubbed her cheeks clean in a fountain, she and Gladio left Noctis in his room. He curled up in the strange sheets and listened to the hum of music trickling through the walls of the palace, and imagined the two of them dancing in the wide ballroom, the light from Iris’ icy crown gleaming in the amber eyes of her brother and king.

It was late, very late, when Noct realized that Gladio had walked off without replacing the ankle cuff.

 

\---

 

When Gladiolus eased open the door to Noct's room a few hours later, the light was still on, and Noct was lying on his back on the floor, his legs propped up on the bed. He was too tired to do more than swing his feet to the floor at the king's approach, and watched Gladio place a bag on the low table in the center of the room.

"From Iris," he said. "I told her you liked cake, and she wanted to apologize."

"You sure you two are related?" Noct asked. Gladio gave him a look of warning and sat on the rug, taking no mind of the way his expensive suit wrinkled and stretched. Noct pushed himself to a sitting position and blinked at him blearily. 

“You forgot to block my magic,” he said. Gladio frowned, but didn’t answer. “Your Majesty, I just _fought your sister,_ and you forgot to—“

“More like my sister kicked your ass,” Gladio said. “Not the same thing.” He loosened his tie. “You should try the cake.” When Noct said nothing, he groaned. “Look, you’re either the wild mage you were made out to be, or you’re a guy who makes _flower crowns_ and likes plays about cheese.”

“It wasn’t about cheese, it was a metaphor—“

“Right. See what I mean?” Gladio rolled a shoulder. “We’ve had mages as guests in the palace before, you know.”

“Yeah, the king. Before the war.” Noct hadn’t been alive for it, but he knew that his father used to visit King Clarus often when they were his age. He leaned forward and dug his hand into the white bag, pulling out a small cake dipped in chocolate.

“Maybe we can try it again,” Gladio said, as Noct shoved the cake into his mouth in one bite.

“Right,” Noct mumbled, around the spiciest chocolate he’d ever eaten in his life. “We all know how _that_ ended up.”

“Neither of us are our dads, Noctis.”

They sat in silence for a moment, while Noct tried not to sear off his tastebuds. No, he definitely wasn’t his father. Regis was… _hardened_ by the war. Whatever had caused the rift between their parents had made him too comfortable with the idea of betrayal, too caught up in the mechanics of war to bother getting to know a little kid toddling after him in the halls. Maybe, if they were at peace, if Cor hadn’t defected, things would have been different. Maybe he’d never’ve been given to the Kingsglaive in the first place.

"What happened back there," Gladio said, breaking the silence. "That can't happen again."

"The fighting? Yeah, I know."

"No." Gladio pushed up the back of his hair. He seemed oddly vulnerable, like this, and Noct tried to remember what Ignis had told him about this young king. For once, he wished he'd paid more attention to his briefings. "You didn't have to... Princes don't kneel, Noctis."

Noct sighed. Not this again. "I'm not a prince anymore," he said. And he _wasn't._ He hadn't been a prince in _years._ Part of him resented Gladiolus for that. He knew it was irrational, but to see the fondness with which he spoke to Iris, the deep grief that still lingered regarding his father, the godsdamned _parade_ through the street? Noct would never have that. He'd fallen through the cracks, shed one identity only to be denied another, and all the tricks and smiles and mannerisms that had helped him survive in Lucis after the fire meant nothing when Gladio refused to pick a role and stick to it.

"I don't know what I am to you," Noct said at last, letting the exhaustion seep into his voice. "I don't know how any of this works anymore."

"Neither do I."

"Dangerous words, from a king," Noct said. Gladio's lips twitched. Noct thought of Iris' words, earlier, at the training yards. If their fathers hadn't fallen out, if their countries hadn't gone to war, what _would_ they have been? What would Noct see in those light brown eyes that he didn't see now? He sat forward on his knees, one hand on the rug, and Gladiolus leaned back a fraction. 

"What do you want me to be?" he asked. "In an ideal world?" He inched closer. He'd already seen so much of Gladiolus, but it was all tied up in pain and shame and confusion. He placed his free hand on the king's knee, and tried to see him again, for the first time. Flawed, arrogant, quick to assume. Quicker still to change his mind. Not, in all, very good qualities for a king to have.

"Prince Noctis," Gladio said, and Noct's fingers curled on the fabric of his suit. 

"No."

"You asked. Prince Noctis." Noct turned aside, and Gladio said it again, soft, questioning. And again, firmer this time. Noct's hands clenched into fists. Again. _Prince Noctis._ A terrible litany. Words that belonged on the tongue of a man who had stepped onto a dry pyre at the border of a Lucian camp, filled with the bitter twisting mess of loathing and betrayal. He pressed his lips to Gladio's to silence him, but the words ran _through_ him all the same, winding their way within a body made foreign. 

_Prince Noctis._

A hand in his hair. Breath on his lips. A half-swallowed sob catching in his throat, and an arm snaking round his shoulders. The warm pulse of a heartbeat Noct had once tried to still as the heat within him spilled over.

_Prince Noctis._

_Prince Noctis._

\---

Two days later, Prompto watched in mute horror as Ignis dragged him along to an electronics store, where he bought a laptop, six flash drives, and a mobile router as though he were spending pocket change. He stumbled after him as the advisor led them both to an empty apartment on the edge of the upper district.

“Is this yours?” he asked, staring up at the wide windows, perfectly curled lattices in the garden, and fresh paint on the walls.

“Of course not,” Ignis said. “No one lives here. We’re breaking in.” 

By the time Ignis had finished picking the lock of the front door, slipped it open a crack with his foot, and made sure his purchases were well in hand, Prompto was still at the edge of the gate, slack-jawed and pale.

“You sure _you_ aren’t a spy?” he asked, hurrying over to follow Ignis into the empty apartment. Ignis snorted.

“I picked up a number of useless skills, looking after Noct over the years,” Ignis told him. “You try tracking a runaway eleven-year-old with magic and see where that gets you. Here we are.” He hustled them both into the bathroom and got to work setting up the computer.

The first thing they did was make duplicates of all of the files. The first two flash drives were all financial reports, which Ignis would have to look over at his leisure. The third was a little more promising. One of the folders was encrypted with a virus which took Ignis nearly an hour to erase. Prompto prowled the apartment in the meantime, bemoaning the lack of food and regaling Ignis with the day-to-day goings on of the underbelly of the Citadel.

“Finally,” Ignis announced, when he could open the folder without crashing the computer. Prompto dropped next to him and looked at row after row of documents and video files.  
Ignis opened the first file and nearly dropped the computer off his lap. 

“Woah, dude!” Prompto lunged for the computer, catching it in both arms. “What the hell was that?”

“I apologize,” Ignis said. He took an unsteady breath. “I was… It was a shock, that’s all.”

“What was?” Prompto squinted at the computer, sighed, and dug into his back pocket, pulling out thick black-rimmed reading glasses. He fit them on and looked again. “Covenant,” he read. “And there’s some kind of symbol. The one they put on hospitals sometimes.”

Ignis swallowed hard. “Yes,” he said, carefully. “They do. When there’s a victim of the Scourge present.”

Prompto and Ignis looked down at the glowing screen of the computer, where the black, hand-drawn mark of Ifrit, the Infernian, lay under a neatly centered letterhead for Zegnautus Keep in the capitol of Niflheim.

 

\---

 

“This is madness,” Ignis said for the fourth time, as Prompto dutifully read the document aloud for the recording device on Ignis’ phone.

_“A. claims that to replicate the process of a covenant with Ifrit, a number of easily recognizable symptoms must be in place. One: Erratic, disoriented behavior for a period of four days prior to the covenant. Invoking a state of disassociation on the subject is best done through…”_

“They can’t possibly,” Ignis said, sitting on the edge of the bathtub with his head in his hands.

_“Fever, uncontrolled outbursts of magic, hallucinations…”_

Ignis left the room. Prompto continued to read for a minute, and then a resounding crunch made the walls shudder, and he turned off the recording app. “Feel any better?” he called.

Ignis emerged from the dark of the empty apartment beyond, shaking his hand. “Let’s pretend that did not occur, and move on. Please.”

Prompto shrugged and patted a spot next to his leg. “Pop a squat, sugarcakes,” he said. Ignis sat, and the two of them ran through a list of videos with timestamps dating back twenty-two months. 

“I know this,” Ignis said. “The Kingsglaive held an investigation after the fire, before Noct… before he was sentenced. I wasn’t aware there were so many.”

“So what’s it doing with a list of fake covenant symptoms?” Prompto said, draping a leg over Ignis’ lap. Somewhere in the midst of their necessary play-acting, Prompto had decided that personal space was for other people, and Ignis had no choice but to resign himself to letting the gangly blonde climb him like an overgrown kitten.

“I believe I may have an idea,” he said darkly, and pulled up one of the videos.

They went through eleven videos before the sun began to set. Each was filmed in a small office with the muted grey walls and dark floors of the Citadel. Some of the men or women were interviewed by a clerk alone. Some sat near Captain Drautos, a somber, imposing figure on a chair too small for his size. Rarely, the king would be there, watching the interview with increasing concern.

Nearly every informant listed off—with disturbing accuracy—a symptom from the document on the file.

_“I thought he was watching a video, but there wasn’t a phone or a tablet in sight. The voice he was talking to, it felt like it was in my head, and the heat in there…”_

_“Asked him about it and he just laughed. Maybe he’s cracked, I don’t know. But it didn’t seem right, laughing at a thing like that.”_

_“I didn’t want to speak of it, sirs,” one woman said, tucking a curl of red hair behind her ear. “But when I came in to clean his rooms, and he turned to me… his eyes… His eyes were like fire.”_

The last video dragged on after the informant left, and Ignis and Prompto watched Captain Drautos rise to fetch the king a glass of water. They sat close together, Drautos reaching out occasionally to hold his shoulder in a show of comfort.

“I know it sounds damning, Regis,” he said.

“Aulea claimed our son would be exceptional,” Regis said. “A king chosen by the crystal, the bringer of a new age.” He ran a thumb over his ring. “When she passed, I consulted the crystal myself. You know what I saw, Titus.”

“Regis, no.”

“Ruin and flame,” the king murmured. “And _Noctis,_ Gods help us.”

“Perhaps the attendants were wrong, Your Majesty,” said the captain, placing a hand on his king’s knee. “He seemed to be a normal child, when he started training with us. A little eager, perhaps. Sometimes… fey. But it’s never too late. He could still be saved.”

“Do you truly believe that, with what you have seen?”

The silence in the room was deafening. 

“I need time to consider this, Captain,” Regis said. “Keep me informed if there is any change. In the meantime, his exposure to others will need to be limited. If he’s already corrupted, the least we can do is contain him.”

Ignis paused the video.

“Holy shit,” Prompto said. 

Ignis didn’t speak, and Prompto turned to him and placed slender hands over his. Only then did Ignis realize that his fingernails were digging into his palms. “I apologize,” he said. “Prompto. I don’t recognize the servants in those videos. _None_ of them. I was responsible for delegating the tasks given to those who cleaned Noctis’ rooms and served him on the field. I know all of them by name. I know their _birthdays.”_

“You would.”

“Hush.” Ignis pressed a hand to Prompto’s lips. “This is how we can bring down the captain. That many informants, trained to lie… There are too many loose ends.”

“Then you’ll probably want to know,” Prompto said, muffled by the advisor’s fingers, “that the last girl might be my neighbor.”

 

\---

 

Ignis looked terribly out of place in Prompto's neighborhood, mincing through the narrow street like a raven in a flock of starlings. Prompto skipped on ahead of him, heedless of the potholes and debris littering the ground, and knocked on two wrong apartments before they found the right building. The young woman who opened the third door was a spitting image of the last interviewed "servant." Her red hair was tied up in a bun, and she wore dark blue overalls streaked with mud and grass stains. On seeing the tailored suit that signified Ignis as a man from the Citadel, she shifted her hand on the door, but Prompto stepped between them.

“Hey,” he said, bumping into the doorframe. “I’m Prompto. Prompto Argentum. I live on Rose Street? Near the twenty-four-hour noodle shop?”

The woman peered at him. “The dog walker,” she said. Prompto beamed.

“Yeah! Mind if we come in? It’s kinda disgusting out here.”

To Ignis’ profound shock, the woman actually let them in.

He spent the next ten minutes watching Prompto in genuine fascination. The young man was certainly personable, he knew, but there was something about the nonthreatening way he stood, the self-deprecating humor, his quick smile, that put their reluctant host at ease. She told them that her name was Mari, thank you, and that they were welcome to wait in the living room while she made some tea.

“That was… quite impressive,” Ignis whispered to his companion, as Mari rattled about in the kitchen.

“What? I was just being nice.” Prompto sat at an angle with his legs crossed, and occupied himself with examining the art on Mari’s walls. It occurred to Ignis, then, that the young man had truly mollified the woman with no ulterior motive to speak of. 

“You’re a marvel, Prompto Argentum,” he said. His companion shook his head.

“Getting kind of carried away by our cover, huh?” 

“Not at all,” Ignis said. “It’s the truth.” Prompto blushed and tugged at the edge of his gloves.

When the woman returned, Ignis sat forward with his elbows on his knees, utterly ruining whatever peace Prompto had unintentionally set in place.

“Mari,” he said. “I would like to let you know, first and foremost, that none of this is being recorded.” It was a lie: The spare phone Ignis had bought three days ago was currently running in his briefcase, draining all its memory to record their conversation. “My name is Ignis Scientia. I’m the new head of Intel working directly under Captain Drautos, and it’s my duty to acquaint myself with those who were involved in the investigation of the former prince two years ago.”

It was a gamble, and for one terrible second, Ignis wondered if he’d guessed wrong. Then the woman’s shoulders slumped.

“I thought this was over,” she said. 

“I am sorry,” Ignis said. “With the transfer of our nation’s intelligence to Duscae, we find it necessary to ensure that no one has contacted agents of King Gladiolus’ cabinet. Have you, in fact…”

“No!” she said, quickly. “No, I haven’t been approached since the investigation.”

Prompto uncrossed his legs. “Okay, so I’m new. What was it she was supposed to say? The fire thing, or the thing about him levitating?”

Mari smiled bitterly. “I was told to say that the prince’s eyes were burning. Making him out to be some sort of daemon, I guess.”

“Have you actually met the prince… pardon, the former prince… before?”

“Gods, no.” Mari took a sip of her tea. “And I hope I never do.” She saw the look on Ignis’ face, and her lips twisted in a scowl. “My sister was on that battlefield. I thought he’d hang for it, at least, but he was a prince, wasn’t he? Just got a whipping and was sent back to his master in Duscae.”

“Just… a whipping…” Ignis said, softly. Prompto hurried to speak over him.

“Well, we might need you to testify again,” he said. “If King Gladiolus’ people look into it. Will you be able to?”

“I—I think so. It’s been a while.”

Ignis drew himself up with a great force of will. “We’ll be sure to send you a relevant script to memorize.” He stood. “Thank you for your service to the Kingsglaive, Mari.”

“Sure.”

Prompto practically had to shove Ignis out the door.

"Easy, stud-muffin," he said. Ignis made a low rumble of disapproval, and he grinned. "No? What about Sugarpea? Cupcake?"

_"Prompto."_

"Sorry, can't use _my_ name." 

"Prompto." Ignis held the younger man by the shoulders. "Don't go home tonight. Go straight to your superior with your copies of the flash drives. They _must_ get to King Gladiolus. Do you understand?"

"Y-yeah," he said. "But what about you?"

Ignis turned his gaze to the spire of the Citadel, blinking softly with violet light against the night sky. "I believe I have a king of my own to visit, oh Prompto, my love."

 

\-----

 

Noct was impressed by how thoroughly he and Gladiolus did _not_ talk about the night of the ball. It was like shutting a door only to find that someone was already bricking up the wall on the other side. They didn’t talk about it over breakfast the next morning, when Noct nearly caused an incident by making the water in Iris’ glass whirl up into the icy shape of a bird on a wave. They didn’t talk about it when Talcott introduced Noct to three stoic, trusted guards, who followed him like painfully obvious shadows. They didn’t talk about it when they ran into each other in one of the libraries, or by the garden, or in the training yards, where Noct watched Gladiolus spar with the steady, unreadable gaze of a cat, slow and lazy.

They didn’t talk about it when Gladio found him in his rooms one afternoon, and passed him an electronic tablet.

“There’s something you need to see,” the king said, as Noctis skimmed through what looked like a sea of files. “Your advisor found it, alongside one of our spies in Insomnia. We’re passing it on to His Majesty King Regis as soon as it’s been verified.

Noct grimaced at the sound of his father’s name, and pulled up one of the video files.

An hour later, he was shaking.

“We’re sending a team to retrieve your advisor,” Gladiolus said, when Noct carefully set the tablet down again. “And to hold the captain in our custody until a full investigation is made.”

“Sounds fair,” Noctis said, in a light, dazed voice. 

“Prince Noctis?”

He raised a hand to his ear, and smoothed back a flyaway whisp of dark hair. “When did you get this?” he asked.

“A few hours ago.”

“And Ignis found it.”

“Ah, yes, in a sense, but it was our agent who acquired the files.”

He nodded. “That’s good. It’ll… it’ll be good to see him again. See him safe. How fast are your cars?”

Gladio raised a brow. “Sorry?”

“Nothing. No, it’s fine. Thank you.” Noct handed him the tablet. “I’d like to be alone, if that’s okay.”

Gladio watched him for a moment, then turned, closing the door after him. 

Noctis waited for a count of ninety. Then he spread out his fingers, and felt the sharp sting of lightning tug between them, thickening into a wire of sparks.

 

\---

 

Ignis was not a fool. He knew, the moment he saw the sigil of the Infernian on his computer screen, that it was a matter of days, possibly hours, before Drautos or his men came for him. So as soon as Prompto was off, running towards his mysterious contact in the city, Ignis stopped at an internet café and propped up the computer on his lap. He edited the information down to a manageable size by the time his latte arrived, had it stored in a single file when his coffee had gone cold and undrinkable, and was setting up a new email account when the waitress nervously replaced his mug with a fresh one at his request.

He knew King Regis’ private server address by heart, but he could only email it from his own, highly monitored account. Ah, well. First thing’s first. 

He drew up his list of prominent news organizations, and one by one, sent all of them the file. Then he mailed the file to the less-known journalism websites, which were more desperate for press and would be likely to release such sensitive materials without seeking out the Citadel for credibility. 

Only when that was done, and his coffee had yet again gone cold, did Ignis sign on to his Crownsguard email and send the file directly to King Regis’ account… and, just to be safe, every account belonging to the top members of his Council. Including Drautos. 

Then he took out the jump drives, slipped them in his boot, and left the computer sitting on the countertop of the café. 

 

\---

 

The front doors of the Amicitia palace lay in a pile of frozen rubble, the frost-covered shards of wood and stone still crackling with the lightning that had ripped them to pieces. Gladiolus stood in the center of the wreckage, staring out into the distance, as though trying to spot Noctis running through the streets of the second tier of the city through the thick outer wall.

"We're en route." Cor, muffled through Gladio's phone, sounding terse with adrenaline. "He stole one of our cars. Looks like he's heading for... shit. Heading for Lucis."

_How fast are your cars?_ Noctis had asked. Gladio swore.

"The hell is he _thinking?_ " he hissed. 

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

"You know, Your Majesty," Cor said, after a minute. "If it were Iris who just got _her_ hands on the kind of info that could bury a man like Drautos, and she was in the center of that pit of snakes they call the court down there... would _you_ be sitting back and talking strategy?"

Gladio said nothing, only turned towards the grey horizon, where the city of Insomnia rose up in the desert like a smog-hazed geode. 

"Hope he's strong enough," he said at last. At his feet, the last snapping remnants of the prince's lightning magic died away, and the lights of the palace reflected off the glittering ice, casting back a flickering image of a spreading flame.

 

\---

 

Noctis Lucis Caelum turned up the radio of the sleek, black car he'd so graciously borrowed from King Gladiolus' garage, and let the clammy wind of Duscae drag through his hair. He had a full tank of gas, a thirty minute head-start, and six hours to Insomnia. Six hours. He just needed Ignis to last that long: He'd find him, pull him out of the city by his collar if he had to, and the two of them would... damn. He didn't know _where_ he'd go. Accordo? Tenebrae? Maybe Tenebrae. He'd heard good things about the royal family there, was even meant to visit, once, before the war became too impossible to navigate around. Or he could go back to Gladiolus...

He thought of the guards, laying unconscious in the fine halls of the Amicitia palace. The doors he'd thrown open with a blast of ice and lightning. The magical wall, so much like his father's, which he'd thrown up just as the king's remaining soldiers tried to follow him down the clean city streets.

No. No, that wouldn't be an option.

He glanced out over the fields at his right, which were thick with high grasses and dotted with trees. For the merest fraction of a second, he thought he saw something--the eyes of an animal, wild and bright and dancing with fire, white fur sleek against the dark grass--and his hands jerked on the wheel. The car rocked: The left-hand tires rose an inch off the asphalt for a dizzying second, and then righted themselves again. The world kept rushing by as he gunned the gas towards Insomnia. The burning eyes of the creature in the grass was left behind, and Noctis felt his own magic building up beneath his skin, warm and full and comforting, stronger than he'd felt in years. He prayed it would be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK SO
> 
> things are still fucked up, no surprise there
> 
> Unfortunately this fic is just unsustainable for me to write. Yes, ok, getting rape threats factors in on this, it's true. But also, I can't really continue past this point. I've tried. I'm sorry. Usually I can finish a fic. This one? No can do. Too personal, I guess.
> 
> Can't say that Gladio and Noct are endgame. Ignis and Prompto are, they do reveal the conspiracy and Drautos goes down spectacularly. Noct joins up with Ignis and Prompto and leaves that chapter of his life behind to rebuild Lucis, which is a metaphor for rebuilding his own life because of course it is. There's a tentative peace, but Niflheim is starting to close in, and they offer an alliance with Noct and Luna to strengthen Lucis. So the cycle begins.


End file.
